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BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


gi  J^jeLction  of  ^jeaitfifiTl 


FROM  THE  WORKS  OF 


®  jj  0  tt  0  Ij  t  S 


&l| 

bjCz .jlfi 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


BY 

ALFRED  I .  HOLMES. 


BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.  : 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  AUTHOR ,  ALFRED  I. 

i  8  o  NASSAU  STREET. 


1872. 


HOLMES  , 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872,  by 
ALFRED  I.  HOLMES, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Stereotyped  at  the 

women’s  printing  house, 
56,  58  and  60  Park  Street, 

New  York. 


PREFACE. 


I  believe  there  are  many  readers  of  “Dickens”  who,  like 
myself,  having  read  his  works,  will  take  pleasure  in  perusing 
again  the  many  beautiful  thoughts  which  awakened  those  pleas¬ 
ing  and  varied  emotions  which  his  writings  inspire.  Perhaps 
no  other  author  has  had  the  faculty  of  entering  into  such  per¬ 
sonal  relations  with  all  his  readers.  His  quick  sense  of  humor 
and  of  pathos,  his  vivacity,  his  conception  of  grotesque  charac¬ 
ters,  the  flowing  of  his  genius  in  characterization ;  his  creations 
of  “  Little  Nell,”  “  Em’ly,”  and  others,  have  made  him  a  writer 
without  peer  in  the  domain  of  literature. 

A  judicious  compilation  will  be,  without  doubt,  a  public 
benefit,  as  affording  not  only  the  means  of  deriving  amusement 
for  leisure  hours,  but  also  as  adding  to  the  means  of  literary 
culture. 

In  order  to  avoid  dividing  my  work  into  innumerable  small 
-^chapters,  I  have  thought  best  to  supply  a  chapter  on  “Promis- 
cuous,”  which  will  be  found  to  contain  many  choice  thoughts. 

The  work  is  the  result  of  many  months’  labor,  and  I  trust  it 

cr~ 

k)  wTill  find  its  way  into  every  home  where  Dickens  has  a  friend. 

J355  h 


The  Author. 


INDEX  OF  CHAPTERS 


CHAPTER  I. 


Witticisms  . 


CHAPTER  II. 


Peculiar  Incidences  .... 

CHAPTER  III. 

Descriptions  of  Persons  . 

CHAPTER  IV. 


Descriptions  of  Places  and  Things 

i 

CHAPTER  V. 


PAGE 

.  7 

.  .  48 

.  158 

.  193 


Reflections  204 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Caricatures  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .221 

CPIAPTER  VII. 

Life’s  Shadows . 239 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Promiscuous . 298- 

CPIAPTER  IX. 


Descriptions  of  Places  and  Things,  together  with  Inci¬ 
dents  in  America . 418 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


WITTICISMS. 

- O - - 

CHAPTER  I. 

FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

66  Y OU  have  a  son,  I  believe?”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

X  “  Four  on  ’em,  sir.  Four  hims  and  a  her.  All 
alive  !  ” 

“Why,  it’s  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them!”  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

“  I  couldn’t  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the  world  less,  sir.” 
“  What  is  that  ?  ” 

“  To  lose  ’em,  sir.” 

“  Can  you  read  ?  ”  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

“  Why,  not  partick’ler,  sir.” 

“  Write  ?  ” 

“With  chalk,  sir?” 

“  With  anything  ?  ” 

“  I  could  make  shift  to  chalk  a  little  bit,  I  think,  if  I  was 
put  to  it,”  said  Toodle,  after  some  reflection. 

“And  yet,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “you  are  two  or  three  and 
thirty,  I  suppose  ?  ” 

“  Thereabouts,  I  suppose,  sir,”  answered  Toodle,  after  more 
reflection. 


8 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


‘‘Then  why  don’t  you  learn?”  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

“  So  I’m  a-going  to,  sir.  One  of  my  little  boys  is  a-going 
to  learn  me,  when  he’s  old  enough,  and  been  to  school  him¬ 
self.” 

“  Well !  ”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  attentively, 
and  with  no  great  favor,  as  he  stood  gazing  round  the  room 
(principally  round  the  ceiling),  and  still  drawing  his  hand  across 
and  across  his  mouth.  “You  heard  what  I  said  to  your  wife 
just  now  ?  ” 

“Polly  heerd  it,”  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  with  an  air  of  perfect 
confidence  in  his  better  half.  “It’s  all  right.” 

“As  you  appear  to  leave  everything  to  her,”  said  Mr.  Dom¬ 
bey,  frustrated  in  his  intention  of  impressing  his  views  still 
more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the  stronger  character,  “  I 
suppose  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying  anything  to  you.” 

“Not  a  bit,”  said  Toodle.  “Polly  heerd  it.  She's  awake, 

•  5  % 

sir. 

“I  won’t  detain  you  any  longer  then,”  returned  Mr.  Dom¬ 
bey,  disappointed.  “  Where  have  you  worked  all  your  life  ?  ” 

“  Mostly  underground,  sir,  ’till  I  got  married.  I  come  to 
the  level  then.  I’m  a-going  on  one  of  these  here  railroads 
when  they  comes  into  full  play.” 

As  the  last  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel’s  back,  this  piece 
of  underground  information  crushed  the  sinking  spirits  of  Mr. 
Dombey. 

^  13 UT  ^e's  ch°ckdifd  of  science,”  he  observed,  waving 

JD  his  hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade.  “  Look  ’ye  here  ! 
Here’s  a  collection  of  ’em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It’s  all  one. 
Only  say  where  you’ll  have  it.  Up  in  a  balloon?  There  you 
are.  Down  in  a  bell  ?  There  you  are.  D’ye  want  to  put  the 
North  Star  in  a  pair  of  scales  and  weigh  it?  He’ll  do  it  for 
you.” 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain  Cuttle’s 


WITTICISMS. 


9 


reverence  for  the  stock  of  instruments  was  profound,  and  that 
his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinction  between  trading  in 
it  and  inventing  it. 

“Ah  !”  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  “it’s  a  fine  thing  to  understand 
’em.  And  yet  it’s  a  fine  thing  not  to  understand ’em.  I  hardly 
know  which  is  best.  It’s  so  comfortable  to  sit  here  and  feel 
that  you  might  be  weighed,  measured,  magnified,  electrified, 
polarized,  played  the  very  devil  with,  and  never  know  how.” 

WHENEVER  a  young  gentleman  was  taken  in  hand  by 
Doctor  Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a 
pretty  tight  squeeze.  The  Doctor  only  undertook  the  charge 
of  ten  young  gentlemen,  but  he  had  always  ready  a  supply  of 
learning  for  a  hundred,  on  the  lowest  estimate;  and  it  was  at' 
once  the  business  and  delight  of  his  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy 
ten  with  it. 

In  fact,  Doctor  Blimber’ s  establishment  was  a  great  hot-house, 
in  which  there  was  a  forcing  apparatus  incessantly  at  work. 
All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time.  Mental  green  peas  were 
produced  at  Christmas,  and  intellectual  asparagus  all  the  year 
round.  Mathematical  gooseberries  (very  sour  ones  too)  were 
common  at  untimely  seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts  of  bushes, 
under  Doctor  Blimber’ s  cultivation.  Every  description  of 
Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  the  driest  twigs  of  boys, 
under  the  frostiest  circumstances.  Nature  was  of  no  conse¬ 
quence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a  young  gentleman  was  in¬ 
tended  to  bear,  Doctor  Blimber  made  him  bear  to  pattern, 
somehow  or  other. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  system  of 
1  forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvantages.  There  was 
not  the  right  taste  about  the  premature  productions,  and  they  • 
didn’t  keep  well.  Moreover,  one  young  gentleman,  with  a 
swollen  nose  and  an  excessively  large  head  (the  oldest  of  the 
ten  who  had  “gone  through”  everything),  suddenly  left  off 
blowing  one  day,  and  remained  in  the  establishment  a  mere 
1* 


IO 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


stalk.  And  people  did  say  that  the  Doctor  had  rather  over¬ 
done  it  with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he  began  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 


y^ND  how  is  master,  Rob  ?  ”  said  Polly. 


“Well,  I  don’t  know,  mother;  not  much  to  boast 
on.  There  ain’t  no  bis’ ness  done,  you  see.  He  don’t  know 
anything  about  it,  the  Cap’en  don’t.  There  was  a  man  come 
into  the  shop  this  very  day,  and  says,  ‘I  want  a  so-and-so,’ 
he  says — some  hard  name  or  another.  ‘  A  which  ?  ’  says  the 
Cap’en.  ‘A  so-and-so,’  says  the  man.  ‘ Brother,’  says  the 
Cap’en,  ‘will  you  take  a  observation  round  the  shop  ?’  ‘Well,’* 
says  the  man,  ‘I’ve  done  it.’  ‘Do  you  see  what  you  want ? ’ 
says  the  Cap’en.  ‘No,  I  don’t,’  says  the  man.  ‘  Do  you  know 
it  when  you  do  see  it?’  says  the  Cap’en.  ‘No,  I  don’t,’  says 
the  man.  ‘Why,  then,  I  tell  you  wot,  my  lad,’  says  the  Cap’en, 
‘you’d  better  go  back  and  ask  wot  it’s  like  outside,  for  no  more 
don’t  I !  ’  ” 

“That  ain’t  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it?”  said 
Polly. 


APT AIN  GILLS,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating  violent- 
ly  with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat :  “Admira¬ 
tion  is  not  the  word.  Upon  my  honor,  you  have  no  conception 
what  my  feelings  are.  If  I  could  be  dyed  black,  and  made  Miss 
Dombey’s  slave,  I  should  consider  it  a  compliment.  If,  at  the 
sacrifice  of  all  my  property,  I  could  get  transmigrated  into  Miss 
Dombey’s  dog, — I — I  really  think  I  should  never  leave  off  wag¬ 
ging  my  tail.  I  should  be  so  perfectly  happy,  Captain  Gills  !  ” 
Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his  hat 
against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 


BUNSBY  !  ”  said  the  Captain,  appealing  to  him  solemn¬ 
ly  :  “  what  do  you  make  of  this  ?  There  you  sit,  a  man 
as  has  had  his  head  broke  from  infancy  up’ards,  and  has  got  a 


WITTICISMS. 


II 


new  opinion  into  it  at  every  seam  as  has  been  opened.  Now, 
what  do  you  make  o’  this  ?  ” 


FROM  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 

“  TV /I  R.  PICKWICK,  mother,”  said  Mr.  Wardle,  at  the 
XVX  very  top  of  his  voice. 

“  Ah !  ”  said  the  old  lady,  shaking  her  head ;  “  I  can’t  hear  you.” 
“  Mr.  Pickwick,  grandma  !  ”  screamed  both  the  young  ladies 
together. 

“Ah  !  ”  exclaimed  the  old  lady.  “Well;  it  don’t  much  mat¬ 
ter.  He  don’t  care  for  an  old  ’ooman  like  me,  I  dare  say.” 

“  I  assure  you,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  grasping  the  old 
lady’s  hand,  and  speaking  so  loud  that  the  exertion  imparted  a 
crimson  hue  to  his  benevolent  countenance,  “I  assure  you, 
ma’am,  that  nothing  delights  me  more  than  to  see  a  lady  of  your 
time  of  life  heading  so  fine  a  family,  and  looking  so  young  and 
well.” 

“Ah  !  ”  said  the  old  lady,  after  a  short  pause ;  “it’s  all  very 
fine,  I  dare  say ;  but  I  can’t  hear  him.” 

66  T3  LESS  my  soul !  ”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  they  stood  upon 
D  the  pavement  while  the  coats  were  being  put  in. 
“Bless  my  soul !  who’s  to  drive?  I  never  thought  of  that.” 
“Oh!  you,  of  course,”  said  Mr.  Tupman. 

“  Of  course,”  said  Mr.  Snodgrass. 

“I !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Not  the  slightest  fear,  sir,”  interposed  the  hostler.  “War-, 
rant  him  quiet,  sir  ;  a  hinfant  in  arms  might  drive  him.” 

“He  don’t  shy,  does  he?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Shy,  sir  ? — he  wouldn’t  shy  if  he  was  to  meet  a  vaggin-load 
of  monkeys  with  their  tails  burnt  ofi.” 


12 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


66  T) ERSON’S  a- waitin’,”  said  Sam,  epigrammatically. 

X  “Does  the  person  want  me,  Sam?”  inquired  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“  He  wants  you  particular ;  and  no  one  else  ’ll  do,  as  the 
Devil’s  private  secretary  said  ven  he  fetched  avay  Doctor  Faus- 
tus,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

u  T  SEE  some  queer  sights  there.” 

X  “  Ah,  I  suppose  you  did,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  an 
air  of  considerable  interest. 

“  Sights,  sir,”  resumed  Mr.  Weller,  “  as  ’ud  penetrate  your 
benevolent  heart,  and  come  out  on  the  other  side.  You  don’t 
see  the  reg’lar  wagrants  there;  trust  ’em,  they  knows  better 
than  that.  Young  beggars,  male  and  female,  as  hasn’t  made 
a  rise  in  their  profession,  takes  up  their  quarters  there  some¬ 
times  ;  but  it’s  generally  the  worn-out,  starving,  houseless  creat¬ 
ures  as  rolls  themselves  in  the  dark  corners  o’  them  lonesome 
places — poor  creeturs  as  an’t  up  to  the  twopenny  rope.” 

“And  pray,  Sam,  what  is  the  twopenny  rope?”  inquired  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“The  twopenny  rope,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  “is  just  a 
cheap  lodgin’ -house,  where  the  beds  is  twopence  a  night.” 

“  What  do  they  call  a  bed  a  rope  for  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Bless  your  innocence,  sir,  that  an’t  it,”  replied  Sam. 
“  Wen  the  lady  and  gen’l’ni’n  as  keeps  the  hot-el  first  began 
business  they  used  to  make  the  beds  on  the  floor;  but  this 
wouldn’t  do  at  no  price, ‘'cos  instead  o’  taking  a  moderate  two- 
penn’orth  o’  sleep,  the  lodgers  used  to  lie  there  half  the  day. 
So  now  they  has  two  ropes,  ’bout  six  foot  apart,  and  three  from 
the  floor,  which  goes  right  down  the  room  ;  and  the  beds  are 
made  of  slips  of  coarse  sacking,  stretched  across  ’em.” 

“  Well,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Well,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  “  the  ad  wantage  o’  the  plan’s  h  ob¬ 
vious.  At  six  o’clock  every  mornin’  they  lets  go  the  ropes  at 
one  end,  and  down  falls  all  the  lodgers.  ’Consequence  is,  that 


WITTICISMS. 


*3 


being  thoroughly  waked,  they  get  up  wery  quietly,  and  walk 
away !  ” 


OU  are  quite  a  philosopher,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

I  '  “It  runs  in  the  family,  I  b’lieve,  sir,”  replied  Mr. 
Weller.  “My  father’s  wery  much  in  that  line  now.  If  my 
mother-in-law  blows  him  up,  he  whistles.  She  flies  in  a  passion, 
and  breaks  his  pipe  :  he  steps  out  and  gets  another.  Then 
she  screams  wery  loud,  and  falls  into  ’sterics  :  and  he  smokes 
wery  comfortably  ’till  she  comes  too  agin.  That’s  philosophy, 
.sir,  ain’t  it  ? ” 


U\I  7EAL  pie,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  soliloquizing,  as  he  ar- 
VV  ranged  the  eatables  on  the  grass.  “Wery  good 
thing  is  weal  pie,  when  you  know  the  lady  as  made  it,  and  is 
quite  sure  it  an’t  kittens;  and  arter  all,  though,  where’s  the 
odds,  when  they’re  so  like  weal  that  the  wery  piemen  themselves 
don’t  know  the  difference?” 

“Don’t  they,  Sam?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Not  they,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  touching  his  hat.  “  I 
lodged  in  the  same  house  with  a  pieman  once,  sir,  and  a  wery 
nice  man  he  was — reg’lar  clever  chap,  too — make  pies  out  o’ 
anything  he  could.  ‘What  a  number  o’  cats  you  keep,  Mr. 
Brooks,’  says  I,  when  I’d  got  intimate  with  him.  ‘Ah,’  says 
he,  ‘I  do — a  good  many,’  says  he.  ‘You  must  be  wery  fond  o’ 
cats,’  says  I.  ‘  Other  people  is,’  says  he,  a-winkin’  at  me  : 
‘they  an’t  in  season  ’till  the  winter,  though,’  says  he.  ‘Not  in 
season!’  says  I.  ‘No,’  says  he,  ‘ fruits  is  in,  cats  is  out.’ 
‘  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  ’  says  I.  ‘  Mean  ?  ’  says  he.  ‘  1  hat- 
1’11  never  be  a  party  to  the  combination  o’  the  butchers,  to  keep 
up  the  prices  o’  meat,’  says  he.  ‘  Mr.  Weller,’  says  he,  a-squeez- 
ing  my  hand  wery  hard,  and  vispering  in  my  ear — ‘  don  t  men¬ 
tion  this  here  agin — but  it’s  the  seasonin’  as  does  it.  they  re 


14 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


all  made  o’  them  noble  animals/  says  he,  a-pointin’  to  a  wery 
nice  little  tabby  kitten — ‘  and  I  seasons  ’em  for  beefsteak,  weal, 
or  kidney,  ’cordin’  to  the  demand.  And  more  than  that,’  says 
he,  ‘  I  can  make  a  weal  a  beefsteak,  or  a  beefsteak  a  kidney, 
or  any  on  ’em  a  mutton,  at  a  minute’s  notice,  just  as  the  mar¬ 
ket  changes  and  appetites  wary  !  ’” 

u^\/7’OU’RE  wery  good,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  W.,  stopping 
A  short;  “perhaps  a  small  glass  of  brandy  to  drink 
your  health,  and  success  to  Sammy,  sir,  wouldn’t  be  amiss.” 

“  Certainly  not,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick.  “A  glass  of  brandy 
here  !  ”  The  brandy  was  brought,  and  Mr.  Weller,  after  pull¬ 
ing  his  hair  to  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  nodding  to  Sam,  jerked  it 
down  his  capacious  throat  as  if  it  had  been  a  small  thimble- 
full. 

“Well  done,  father,”  said  Sam,  “take  care,  old  fellow,  or 
you’ll  have  a  touch  of  your  old  complaint,  the  gout.” 

“I’ve  found  a  sov’rin  cure  for  that,  Sammy,”  said  Mr. 
Weller,  setting  down  the  glass. 

“  A  sovereign  cure  for  the  gout,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  hastily 
producing  his  note-book  ;  “  what  is  it  ?  ” 

“  The  gout,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  “  the  gout  is  a  com¬ 
plaint  as  arises  from  too  much  ease  and  comfort.  If  ever 
you’re  attacked  with  the  gout,  sir,  jist  you  marry  a  widder  as 
has  got  a  good  loud  woice,  with  a  decent  notion  of  usin’  it, 
and  you’ll  never  have  the  gout  agin.  It’s  a  capital  prescrip¬ 
tion,  sir.  I  takes  it  reg’lar,  and  I  can  warrant  it  to  drive  away 
any  illness  as  is  caused  by  too  much  jollity.”  Having  imparted 
this  valuable  secret,  Mr.  Weller  drained  his  glass  once  more, 
produced  a  labored  wink,  sighed  deeply,  and  slowly  retired. 

“Well,  what  do  you  think  of  what  your  father  says,  Sam?” 
inquired  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a  smile. 

“Think,  sir!”  replied  Mr.  Weller;  “why,  I  think  he’s  the 
wictim  o’  connubiality,  as  Blue  Beard’s  domestic  chaplain  said, 
with  a  tear  of  pity,  veil  he  buried  him.” 


WITTICISMS. 


15 


AM  very  glad  to  see  that  you  have  so  high  a  sense  of 

X  your  duties  as  a  son,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  I  always  had,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

“  That’s  a  very  gratifying  reflection,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick,  approvingly. 

“Wery,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller;  “if  ever  I  wanted  any¬ 
thin’  o’  my  father,  I  always  asked  for  it  in  a  wery  ’spectful  and 
obligin’  manner.  If  he  didn’t  give  it  me,  I  took  it,  for  fear  I 
should  be  led  to  do  anythin’  wrong,  through  not  havin’  it.  I 
saved  him  a  world  o’  trouble  in  this  way,  sir.” 

“That’s  not  precisely  what  I  meant,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick,  shaking  his  head,  with  a  slight  smile. 

“All  good  feelin’,  sir — the  wery  best  intentions,  as  the 
gen’l’m’n  said  ven  he  run  away  from  his  wife ’cos  she  seemed 
unhappy  with  him,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 


66  ry^ppERE,”  said  Sam,  throwing  in  the  last  carpet-bag. 

X  There  they  are  !  ” 

“Yes,”  said  the  fat  boy,  in  a  very  satisfied  tone,  “  there  they 
are.” 

“Veil,  young  twenty  stun,”  said  Sam,  “you’re  a  nice  speci¬ 
men  of  a  prize  boy,  you  are  !  ” 

“  Thank’ee,”  said  the  fat  boy. 

“  You  ain’t  got  nothin’  on  your  mind  as  makes  you  fret 
yourself,  have  you  ?  ”  inquired  Sam. 

“  Not  as  I  knows  on,”  replied  the  fat  boy. 

“  I  should  rayther  ha’  thought,  to  look  at  you,  that  you  was 
a  laborin’  under  an  unrequited  attachment  to  some  young 
’ooman,”  said  Sam. 

The  fat  boy  shook  his  head. 

“Veil,”  said  Sam,  “  I’m  glad  to  hear  it.  Do  you  ever  drink 
anythin’  ?  ” 

“  I  likes  eating,  better,”  replied  the  boy. 

“Ah,”  said  Sam,  “I  should  ha’  s’posed  that:  but  what  I 
mean  is,  should  you  like  a  drop  of  anythin’  as ’d  warm  you  ? 


i6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


but  I  s’pose  you  never  was  cold,  with  all  them  elastic  fixtures, 
was  you  ?  ” 

^  T ’LL  Tell  you  what  it  is,  young  boa  constructer,”  said 

X  Mr.  Weller,  impressively ;  “  if  you  don’t  sleep  a  little 
less,  and  exercise  a  little  more,  wen  you  comes  to  be  a  man 
you’ll  lay  yourself  open  to  the  same  sort  of  personal  incon- 
wenience  as  was  inflicted  on  the  old  gen’l’m’n  as  wore  the 
pigtail.” 

“  What  did  they  do  to  him?  ”  inquired  the  fat  boy,  in  a  fal¬ 
tering  voice. 

“  I’m  a-goin’  to  tell  you,”  replied  Mr.  Weller  ;  “he  was  one 
o’  the  largest  patterns  as  was  ever  turned  out — reg’lar  fat  man, 
as  hadn’t  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  own  shoes  for  five-and-forty 
year.” 

“  Lor  !  ”  exclaimed  Emma. 

“No,  that  he  hadn’t,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Weller;  “and  if 
you’d  put  an  exact  model  of  his  own  legs  on  the  dinin’  table 
afore  him,  he  wouldn’t  ha’  known  ’em.  Well,  he  always  walks 
to  his  office  with  a  wery  handsome  gold  watch-chain  hanging 
out,  about  a  foot  and  a  quarter,  and  a  gold  watch  in  his  fob 
pocket  as  was  worth — I’m  afraid  to  say  how  much,  but  as  much 
as  a  watch  can  be — a  large,  heavy,  round  manafacter,  as  stout 
for  a  watch,  as  he  was  for  a  man,  and  with  a  big  face  in  pro¬ 
portion.  ‘  You’d  better  not  carry  that  ’ere  watch,’  says  the  old 
gen’l’m’n’s  friends,  ‘you’ll  be  robbed  on  it,’  says  they.  ‘Shall 
I?’  says  he.  ‘Yes,  you  will,’  says  they.  ‘Veil,’  says  he,  ‘I 
should  like  to  see  the  thief  as  could  get  this  here  watch  out,  for 
I’m  blest  if  /ever  can,  it’s  such  a  tight  fit,’  says  he ;  ‘and  ven- 
ever  I  wants  to  know  what’s  o’clock,  I’m  obliged  to  stare  into 
the  bakers’  shops,’  he  says.  Well,  then  he  laughs  as  hearty  as 
if  he  was  a-goin’  to  pieces,  and  out  he  walks  agin’  with  his 
powdered  head  and  pigtail,  and  rolls  down  the  Strand  vith  the 
chain  hangin’  out  furder  than  ever,  and  the  great  round  watch 
almost  bustin’  through  his  gray  kersey  smalls.  There  warn’t  a 


WITTICISMS. 


17 


pickpocket  in  all  London  as  didn’t  take  a  pull  at  that  chain, 
but  the  chain  ’ud  never  break,  and  the  watch  ’ud  never  come 
out,  so  they  soon  got  tired  o’  dragging  such  a  heavy  old 
genii’ m’n  along  the  pavement,  and  he’d  go  home  and  laugh  till 
the  pigtail  wibrated  like  the  penderlum  of  a  Dutch  clock;  At 
last,  one  day  the  old  gen’l’m’n  was  a-rollin’  along,  and  he  sees 
a  pickpocket  as  he  know’d  by  sight,  a-comin’  up,  arm  in  arm  vith 
a  little  boy  vith  a  wery  large  head.  ‘  Here’s  a  game,’  said  the 
old  gen’l’m’n  to  himself,  ( they’re  a-goin’  to  have  another  try, 
but  it  won’t  do  !  ’  So  he  begins  a-chucklin’  wery  hearty,  wen, 
all  of  a  sudden,  the  little  boy  leaves  hold  of  the  pickpocket’s 
arm,  and  rushes  headforemost  into  the  old  genTm’n’s  stomach, 
and  for  a  moment  doubles  him  right  up  vith  the  pain.  ‘  Mur¬ 
der  !  ’  says  the  old  gen’l’m’n.  ‘All  right,  sir,’  says  the  pick¬ 
pocket,  a-wisperin’  in  his  ear.  And  wen  he  come  straight  agin, 
the  watch  and  chain  was  gone,  and  what’s  worse  than  that,  the 
old  genTm’n’s  digestion  was  all  wrong  ever  artervards,  to  the 
wery  last  day  of  his  life;  so  just  you  look  about  you,  young 
feller,  and  take  care  you  don’t  get  too  fat.” 

A  BILL,  by  the  by,  is  the  most  extraordinary  locomotive 
engine  that  the  genius  of  man  ever  produced.  It  would 
keep  on  running  during  the  longest  lifetime,  without  ever  once 
stopping  of  its  own  accord. 

00 KING  carefully  at  the  pen  to  see  that  there  were  no 


J _ y  hairs  in  it,  and  dusting  down  the  table,  so  that  there 

might  be  no  crumbs  of  bread  under  the  paper,  Sam  tucked  up 
the  cuffs  of  his  coat,  squared  his  elbows,  and  composed  himself 
to  write. 

To  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  devoting 
themselves  practically  to  the  science  of  penmanship,  writing  a 
letter  is  no  very  easy  task  ;  it  being  always  considered  neces¬ 
sary  in  such  cases  for  the  writer  to  recline  his  head  on  his  left 


i8 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


arm,  so  as  to  place  his  eyes  as  nearly  as  possible  on  a  level 
with  the  paper,  while  glancing  sideways  at  the  letters  he  is  con¬ 
structing,  to  form  with  his  tongue  imaginary  characters  to  cor¬ 
respond.  These  motions,  although  unquestionably  of  the 
greatest  assistance  to  original  composition,  retard  in  some  de¬ 
gree  the  progress  of  the  writer  ;  and  Sam  had  unconsciously 
been  a  full  hour  and  a  half  writing  words  in  small  text,  smearing 
out  wrong  letters  with  his  little  finger,  and  putting  in  new  ones 
which  required  going  over  very  often  to  render  them  visible 
through  the  old  blots,  when  he  was  roused  by  the  opening  of 
the  door  and  the  entrance  of  his  parent. 

“  Veil,  Sammy,”  said  the  father. 

“  Veil,  my  Prooshan  Blue,”  responded  the  son,  laying  down 
his  pen.  “  What’s  the  last  bulletin  about  mother-in-law  ?  ” 

“Mrs.  Veller  passed  a  very  good  night,  but  is  uncommon 
perwerse  and  unpleasant  this  mornin’.  Signed  upon  oath,  S. 
Veller,  Esquire,  Senior.  That’s  the  last  vun  as  was  issued, 
Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  untying  his  shawl. 

“  No  better  yet  ?  ”  inquired  Sam. 

“  All  the  symptoms  aggerawated,”  replied  Mr.  Weller  shaking 
his  head.  “  But  wot’s  that  you’re  a-doin’  of?  Pursuit  of  knowl¬ 
edge  under  difficulties,  Sammy  ?  ” 

“  I’ve  done  now,”  said  Sam  with  slight  embarrassment ; 
“  I’ve  been  a-writin’.” 

“  So  I  see,”  replied  Mr.  Weller.  “  Not  to  any  young  ’oman, 
I  hope,  Sammy  ?  ” 

“  Why  it’s  no  use  sayin’  it  ain’t,”  replied  Sam  ;  “  it’s  a  walen- 
tine.” 

“  A  what  !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparently  horror-stricken 
by  the  word. 

“  A  walentine,”  replied  Sam. 

“  Samivel,  Samivel,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  in  reproachful  ac¬ 
cents.  “  I  didn’t  think  you’d  ha’  done  it.  Arter  the  warnin’ 
you’ve  had  o’  your  father’s  wicious  propensities  ;  arter  all  I’ve 
said  to  you  upon' this  here  wery  subject ;  arter  actiwally  seein’ 
and  bein’  in  the  company  o’  your  own  mother-in-law,  vich  I 


WITTICISMS. 


I9 


should  ha’  thought  wos  a  moral  lesson  as  no  man  could  never 
ha’  forgotten  to  his  dyin’  day!  I  didn’t  think  you’d  ha’  done 
it,  Sammy,  I  didn’t  think  you’d  ha’  done  it!”  These  reflec¬ 
tions  were  too  much  for  the  good  old  man.  He  raised  Sam’s 
tumbler  to  his  lips  and  drank  off  its  contents. 

“Wot’s  the  matter  now  ?”  said  Sam. 

“  Nev’r  mind,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  “it’ll  be  a  wery 
agonizin’  trial  to  me  at  my  time  of  life,  but  I’m  pretty  tough, 
that’s  vun  consolation,  as  the  wery  old  turkey  remarked  wen 
the  farmer  said  he  wos  afeerd  he  should  be  obliged  to  kill  him 
for  the  London  market. 

“  Wot’ll  be  a  trial  ?  ”  inquired  Sam. 

“To  see  you  married,  Sammy — to  see  you  a  dilluded  wic- 
tim,  and  thinkin’  in  your  innocence  that  it’s  all  wery  capital,” 
replied  Mr.  Weller.  “It’s  a  dreadful  trial  to  a  father’s  feelin’s, 
that  ’ere,  Sammy.” 

“Nonsense,”  said  Sam.  “I  ain’t  a-goin’  to  get  married, 
don’t  you  fret  yourself  about  that;  I  know  you’re  a  judge  of 
these  things.  Order  in  your  pipe,  and  I’ll  read  you  the  letter. 
There  !  ” 

We  cannot  distinctly  say  whether  it  was  the  prospect  of  the 
pipe,  or  the  consolatory  reflection  that  a  fatal  disposition  to 
get  married  ran  in  the  family  and  couldn’t  be  helped,  which 
calmed  Mr.  Weller’s  feelings,  and  caused  his  grief  to  subside. 
We  should  be  rather  disposed  to  say  that  the  result  was  at¬ 
tained  by  combining  the  two  sources  of  consolation,  for  he  re¬ 
peated  the  second  in  a  low  tone,  very  frequently ;  ringing  the 
bell  meanwhile,  to  order  in  the  first.  He  then  divested  him¬ 
self  of  his  upper  coat ;  and  lighting  the  pipe  and  placing  him¬ 
self  in  front  of  the  fire  with  his  back  towards  it,  so  that  he 
could  feel  its  full  heat,  and  recline  against  the  mantel-piece  at 
the  same  time,  turned  towards  Sam,  and,  with  a  countenance 
greatly  mollified  by  the  softening  influence  of  tobacco,  reques¬ 
ted  him  to  “fire  away.” 

Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready  for  any  correc¬ 
tions,  and  began  with  a  very  theatrical  air : 


20 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  ‘  Lovely - .’  ” 

“  Stop,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  ringing  the  bell.  “  A  double  glass 
o’  the  inwariable,  my  dear.” 

“Very  well,  sir,”  replied  the  girl;  who  with  great  quickness 
appeared,  vanished,  returned,  and  disappeared. 

“They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,”  observed  Sam. 

“Yes,”  replied  his  father,  “I’ve  been  here  before,  in  my 
time.  Go  on,  Sammy.” 

“  ‘  Lovely  creetur,’  ”  repeated  Sam. 

“’Tain’t  in  poetry,  is  it  ?”  interposed  his  father. 

“  No,  no,”  replied  Sam. 

“Wery  glad  to  hear  it,”  said  Mr.  Weller.  “Poetry’s  unnat- 
Tal ;  no  man  ever  talked  poetry  ’cept  a  beadle  on  boxin’  day, 
or  Warren’s  blackin’,  or  Rowland’s  oil,  or  some  o’  them  low 
fellows ;  never  you  let'  yourself  down  to  talk  poetry,  my  boy. 
Begin  agin,  Sammy.” 

Mr.  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  a  critical  solemnity,  and 
Sam  once  more  commenced,  and  read  as  follows  : 

“  4  Lovely  creetur  i  feel  myself  a  dammed’ — ” 

“  That  ain’t  proper,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth. 

“No  ;  it  ain’t  ‘dammed’,”  observed  Sam,  holding  the  letter 
up  to  the  light,  “it’s  ‘shamed,’  there’s  a  blot  there — ‘I  feel 
myself  ashamed.’  ” 

“Wery  good,”  said  Mr.  Weller.  “  Go  on.” 

“  ‘Feel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir — ’  I  forget  what 
this  here  word  is,”  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head  with  the  pen, 
in  vain  attempts  to  remember. 

“Why  don’t  you  look  at  it,  then?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

“  So  I  am  adookin’  at  it,”  replied  Sam,  “  but  there’s  another 
blot.  Here’s  a  ‘  c,’  and  a  ‘  i,’  and  a  ‘  d.’  ” 

“  Circumwented,  p’haps,”  suggested  Mr.  Weller. 

“No,  it  ain’t  that,”  said  Sam,  “circumscribed ;  that’s  it.” 

“  That  ain’t  as  good  a  word  as  circumwented,  Sammy,”  said 
Mr.  Weller,  gravely. 

“  Think  not  ?  ”  said  Sam. 


WITTICISMS. 


21 


“  Nothin’  like  it,”  replied  his  father. 

“  But  don’t  you  think  it  means  more?”  inquired  Sam. 

“Veil,  p’raps  it  is  a  more  tenderer  word,”  said  Mr.  Weller, 
after  a  few  moments’  reflection.  “  Go  on,  Sammy.” 

“  1  Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  circumscribed  in  a 
dressin’  of  you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal  and  nothin’  but  it.” 

“  That’s  a  wery  pretty  sentiment,”  said  the  elder  Mr.  Weller, 
removing  his  pipe  to  make  way  for  the  remark. 

“Yes,  I  think  it  is  rayther  good,”  observed  Sam,  highly 
flattered. 

“Wot  I  like  in  that  ’ere  style  of  writin’,”  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller,  “is,  that  there  ain’t  no  callin’  names  in  it, — no  We- 
nuses,  nor  nothin’  o’  that  kind.  Wot’s  the  good  o’  callin’  a 
young  ’ooman  a  Wenus  or  a  angel,  Sammy?” 

“Ah!  what,  indeed?”  replied  Sam. 

“You  might  just  as  well  call  her  a  griffin,  or  a  unicorn,  or  a 
king’s  arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  well  known  to  be  a  col-lec¬ 
tion  o’  fabulous  animals,”  added  Mr.  Weller. 

“  Just  as  well,”  replied  Sam. 

“  Drive  on,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  complied  with  the  request,  and  proceeded  as  follows  :  his 
father  continuing  to  smoke,  with  a  mixed  expression  of  wisdom 
and  complacency,  which  was  particularly  edifying. 

“  1  Afore  I  see  you,  I  thought  all  women  was  alike.’  ” 

“  So  they  are,”  observed  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  parentheti¬ 
cally. 

“  ‘  But  now,’  continued  Sam,  Grow  I  find  what  a  reg’lar  soft¬ 
headed,  ink-red’ lous  turnip  I  must  ha’  been :  for  there  ain’t 
nobody  like  you/ though  I  like  you  better  than  nothin’  at  all.’ 
I  thought  it  best  to  make  that  rayther  strong,”  said  Sam,  look¬ 
ing  up. 

Mr.  Weller  nodded  approvingly,  and  Sam  resumed. 

“  ‘  So  I  take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear — as 
the  gen’l’m’n  in  difficulties  did,  ven  he  valked  out  of  a  Sunday, 
—  to  tell  you  that  the  first  and  only  time  I  see  you,  your  like- 


22 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ness  was  took  on  my  hart  in  much  quicker  time  and  brighter 
colors  than  ever  a  likeness  was  took  by  the  profeel  macheen 
(wich  p’raps  you  may  have  heerd  on,  Mary  my  dear),  altho  it 
does  finish  a  portrait  and  put  the  frame  and  glass  on  complete, 
with  a  hook  at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  by,  and  all  in  two  min¬ 
utes  and  a  quarter.’  ” 

“  I  am  afeerd  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Sammy,”  said 
Mr.  Weller,  dubiously. 

“No  it  don’t,”  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very  quickly,  to 
avoid  contesting  the  point : 

“  ‘  Except  of  me,  Mary,  my  dear,  as  your  walentine,  and  think 
over  what  I’ve  said. — My  dear  Mary  I  will  now  conclude.’ 
That’s  all,”  said  Sam. 

“That’s  rather  a  sudden  pull  up,  ain’t  it,  Sammy?”  inquired 
Mr.  Weller. 

“Not  a  bit  on  it,”  said  Sam;  she’ll  vish  there  wos  more, 
and  that’s  the  great  art  o’  letter  writin’.” 

“  Well,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  “  there’s  somethin’  in  that ;  and  I 
wish  your  mother-in-law  ’ud  only  conduct  her  conwersation  on 
the  same  gen-teel  principle.  Ain’t  you  a-goin’  to  sign  it?” 

“  That’s  the  difficulty,”  said  Sam  ;  “  I  don’t  know  what  to 
sign  it.” 

“Sign  it  Veller,”  said  the  oldest  surviving  proprietor  of  that 
name. 

“  Won’t  do,”  said  Sam.  “  Never  sign  a  walentine  with  your 
own  name.” 

“Sign  it  ‘Pickvick,’  then,”  said  Mr.  Weller;  “it’s  a  wery 
good  name,  and  a  easy  one  to  spell.” 

“ The  wery  thing,”  said  Sam.  “I  could  erfd  with  a  werse  ; 
what  do  you  think  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  like  it,  Sam,”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  “  I  never 
know’d  a  respectable  coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  ’cept  one,  as 
made  an  affectin’  copy  o’  werses  the  night  afore  he  wos  hung 
for  highway  robbery ;  and  he  wos  only  a  Cambervell  man,  so 
even  that’s  no  rule.” 


WITTICISMS. 


2  3 


But  Sam  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  poetical  idea  that 
had  occurred  to  him,  so  he  signed  the  letter : 


“  Your  love-sick 
Pickwick.” 


And  having  folded  it  in  a  very  intricate  manner,  squeezed  a 
down-hill  direction  in  one  corner:  “To  Mary,  Housemaid,  at 
Mr.  Nupkins’s  Mayor’s,  Ipswich,  Suffolk  and  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  wafered,  and  ready  for  the  General  Post.  This  im¬ 
portant  business  having  been  transacted,  Mr.  Weller  the  elder 
proceeded  to  open  that  on  which  he  had  summoned  his  son. 


AMIVEL,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  accosting  his  son  on  the 


morning  after  the  funeral,  “  I’ve  found  it,  Sammy.  I 


thought  it  wos  there.” 

“  Thought  wot  wos  were  ?  ”  inquired  Sam. 

“Your  mother-in-law’s  vill,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
“  In  wirtue  o’  vich,  them  arrangements  is  to  be  made  as  I  told 
you  on,  last  night,  respectin’  the  funs.” 

“Wot,  didn’t  she  tell  you  were  it  wos?”  inquired  Sam. 

“Not  a  bit  on  it,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller.  “We  wos 
a  adjestin’  our  little  differences,  and  I  wos  a-cheerin’  her 
spirits  and  bearin’  her  up,  so  that  I  forgot  to  ask  anythin’ 
about  it.  I  don’t  know  as  I  should  ha’  done  it  indeed,  if  I  had 
remembered  it,”  added  Mr.  Weller,  “for  it’s  a  rum  sort  o’ 
thing,  Sammy,  to  go  a-hankerin’  arter  anybody’s  property,  ven 
you’re  assistin’  ’em  in  illness.  It’s  like  helping  an  outside  pas¬ 
senger  up,  ven  he’s  been  pitched  off  a  coach,  and  puttin’  your 

hand  in  his  pocket,  vile  you  ask  him  vith  a  sigh  how  he  finds 

♦ 

his-self,  Sammy.” 

u  T  T’S  wonderful  how  the  poor  people  patronize  me,”  said 


X  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer,  reflectively.  “They  knock  me  up  at 
all  hours  of  the  night ;  they  take  medicine  to  an  extent  which  I 
should  have  conceived  impossible ;  they  put  on  blisters  and 
leeches  with  a  perseverance  worthy  of  a  better  cause ;  they 


24 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


make  additions  to  their  families,  in  a  manner  which  is  quite 
awful.  Six  of  those  last-named  little  promissory  notes,  all  due 
on  the  same  day,  Ben,  and  all  intrusted  to  me  !  ” 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


44  ®  ^  were  speaking  about  its  being  a  girl,”  said  Miss  Bet- 

X  sey.  “  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  a  girl.  I  have  a 
presentiment  that  it  must  be  a  girl.  Now  child,  from  the 
moment  of  the  birth  of  this  girl — ■” 

“  Perhaps  boy,”  my  mother  took  the  liberty  of  putting  in. 

“  I  tell  you  I  have  a  presentiment  that  it  must  be  a  girl,”  re¬ 
turned  Miss  Betsey.  “Don’t  contradict.  From  the  moment 
of  this  girl’s  birth,  child,  I  intend  to  be  her  friend.  I  intend  to 
be  her  godmother,  and  I  beg  you’ll  call  her  Betsey  Trotwood 
Copperfield.  There  must  be  no  mistakes  in  life  with  this 
Betsey  Trotwood.  There  must  be  no  trifling  with  her  affec¬ 
tions,  poor  dear.  She  must  be  well  brought  up,  and  well 
guarded  from  reposing  any  foolish  confidences  where  they  are 
not  deserved.  I  must  make  that  my  care.” 

HE  mild  Mr.  Chillip  could  not  possibly  bear  malice  at 


X  such  a  time,  if  at  any  time.  He  sidled  into  the  parlor  as 
soon  as  he  was  at  liberty,  and  said  to  my  aunt  in  his  meekest 
manner : 

“  Well,  ma’am,  I  am  happy  to  congratulate  you.” 

“What  upon?”  said  my  aunt  sharply. 

Mr.  Chillip  was  fluttered  again,  by  the  extreme  severity  of 
my  aunt’s  manner ;  so  he  made  her  a  little  bow,  and  gave  her 
a  little  smile,  to  mollify  her. 

“  Mercy  on  the  man,  what’s  he  doing  !  ”  cried  my  aunt,  im¬ 
patiently.  “  Can’t  he  speak  ?  ” 


WITTICISMS. 


25 


“  Be  calm,  my  dear  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Chillip,  in  his  softest 
accents.  “  There  is  no  longer  any  occasion  for  uneasiness, 
ma’am.  Be  calm.” 

It  has  since  been  considered  almost  a  miracle  that  my  aunt 
didn’t  shake  him,  and  shake  what  he  had  to  say  out  of  him. 
She  only  shook  her  own  head  at  him,  but  in  a  way  that  made 
him  quail. 

“Well,  ma’am,”  resumed  Mr.  Chillip,  as  soon  as  he  had 
courage,  “  I  am  happy  to  congratulate  you.  All  is  now  over, 
ma’am,  and  well  over.” 

During  the  five  minutes  or  so  that  Mr.  Chillip  devoted  to 
the  delivery  of  this  oration,  my  aunt  eyed  him  narrowly. 

“  How  is  she  ?  ”  said  my  aunt,  folding  her  arms,  with  her 
bonnet  still  tied  on  one  of  them. 

“Well,  ma’am,  she  will  soon  be  quite  comfortable,  I  hope,” 
returned  Mr.  Chillip.  “  Quite  as  comfortable  as  we  can  ex- 
pect  a  young  mother  to  be,  under  these  melancholy  domestic 
circumstances.  There  cannot  be  any  objection  to  your  seeing 
her  presently,  ma’am.  It  may  do  her  good.” 

“And  she.  How  is  she?”  said  my  aunt  sharply. 

Mr.  Chillip  laid  his  head  a  little  more  on  one  side,  and  looked 
at  my  aunt  like  an  amiable  bird. 

“  The  baby,”  said  my  aunt.  “  How  is  she  ?  ” 

“  Ma’am,”  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  “  I  apprehended  you  had 
known.  It’s  a  boy.” 

My  aunt  said  never  a  word,  but  took  her  bonnet  by  the 
strings,  in  the  manner  of  a  sling,  aimed  a  blow  at  Mr.  Chillip’ s 
head  with  it,  put  it  on  bent,  walked  out,  and  never  came  back. 
She  vanished  like  a  discontented  fairy ;  or  like  one  of  those 
supernatural  beings  whom  it  was  popularly  supposed  I  was  en¬ 
titled  to  see  ;  and  never  came  back  any  more. 

No.  I  lay  in  my  basket,  and  my  mother  lay  in  her  bed  ; 
but  Betsey  Trotwood  Copperfield  was  forever  in  the  land  of 
dreams  and  shadows,  the  tremendous  region  whence  I  had  so 
lately  travelled ;  and  the  light  upon  the  window  of  our  room 
shone  out  upon  the  earthly  bourne  of  all  such  travellers,  and 
2 


2  6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


the  mound  above  the  ashes  and  the  dust  that  once  was  he, 
without  whom  I  had  never  been. 


HERE  is  our  pew  in  the  church.  What  a  high-backed 
pew  !  With  a  window  near  it,  out  of  which  our  house 
can  be  seen,  and  is  seen  many  times  during  the  morning’s 
service,  by  Peggotty,  who  likes  to  make  herself  as  sure  as  she 
can  that  it’s  not  being  robbed,  or  is  not  in  flames.  But  though 
Peggotty’ s  eye  wanders,  she  is  much  offended  if  mine  does, 
and  frowns  to  me,  as  I  stand  upon  the  seat,  that  I  am  to  look 
at  the  clergyman.  But  I  can’t  always  look  at  him — I  know 
him  without  that  white  thing  on,  and  I  am  afraid  of  his  wonder¬ 
ing  why  I  stare  so,  and  perhaps  stopping  the  service  to  inquire 
— and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  It’s  a  dreadful  thing  to  gape,  but  I 
must  do  something.  I  look  at  my  mother,  but  she  pretends 
not  to  see  me.  I  look  at  a  boy  in  the  aisle,  and  he  makes 
faces  at  me.  I  look  at  the  sunlight  coming  in  at  the  open  door 
through  the  porch,  and  there  I  see  a  stray  sheep — I  don’t 
mean  a  sinner,  but  mutton — half  making  up  his  mind  to  come 
into  the  church. 


PEGGOTTY  and  I  were  sitting  one  night  by  the  parlor 
fire,  alone.  I  had  been  reading  to  Peggotty  about  croc¬ 
odiles.  I  must  have  read  very  perspicuously,  or  the  poor  soul 
must  have  been  deeply  interested,  for  I  remember  she  had  a 
cloudy  impression,  after  I  had  done,  that  they  were  a  sort  of 
vegetable.  I  was  tired  of  reading,  and  dead  sleepy ;  but  having 
leave,  as  a  high  treat,  to  sit  up  until  my  mother  came  home  from 
spending  the  evening  at  a  neighbor’s,  I  would  rather  have  died 
upon  my  post  (of  course)  than  have  gone  to  bed.  I  had 
reached  that  stage  of  sleepiness  when  Peggotty  seemed  to  swell 
and  grow  immensely  large.  I  propped  my  eyelids  open  with  my 
two  forefingers,  and  looked  perseveringly  at  her  as  she  sat  at 


WITTICISMS. 


27 


work ;  at  the  little  bit  of  wax-candle  she  kept  for  her  thread — 
how  old  it  looked,  being  so  wrinkled  in  all  directions  ! — at  the 
little  house  with  a  thatched  roof,  where  the  yard-measure  lived  ; 
at  her  work-box  with  a  sliding  lid,  with  a  view  of  St.  Paul’s 
Cathedral  (with  a  pink  dome)  painted  on  the  top ;  at  the  brass 
thimble  on  her  finger ;  at  herself,  whom  I  thought  lovely.  I 
felt  so  sleepy,  that  I  knew  if  I  lost  sight  of  anything,  for  a  mo¬ 
ment,  I  was  gone. 

“  Peggotty,”  says  I  suddenly,  “  were  you  ever  married  ?  ” 

“  Lord,  Master  Davy,”  replied  Peggotty.  “What’s  put  mar¬ 
riage  into  your  head  ?  ” 

She  answered  with  such  a  start,  that  it  quite  awoke  me. 
And  then  she  stopped  in  her  work,  and  looked  at  me,  with  her 
needle  drawn  out  to  its  thread’s  length. 

“But  were  you  ever  married,  Peggotty?”  says  I.  “You 
are  a  very  handsome  woman,  ain’t  you  ?  ” 

I  thought  her  in  a  different  style  from  my  mother,  certainly  ; 
but  of  another  school  of  beauty,  I  considered  her  a  perfect  ex-, 
ample.  There  was  a  red  velvet  footstool  in  the  best  parlor,  on 
which  my  mother  had  painted  a  nosegay.  The  groundwork  of 
that  stool  and  Peggotty’ s  complexion  appeared  to  me  one  and 
the  same  thing.  The  stool  was  smooth,  and  Peggotty  was 
rough,  but  that  made  no  difference. 

“Me  handsome,  Davy!”  said  Peggotty.  “Lawk,  no,  my 
dear  !  But  what  put  marriage  in  your  head  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  !  You  mustn’t  marry  more  than  one  person 
at  a  time,  may  you,  Peggotty  ?  ” 

“  Certainly  not,”  says  Peggotty,  with  the  promptest  decision. 

“  But  if  you  marry  a  person,  and  the  person  dies,  why  then 
you  may  marry  another  person,  mayn’t  you,  Peggotty  ?  ” 

“  You  may,”  says  Peggotty,  “  if  you  choose,  my  dear.  That’s 
a  matter  of  opinion.” 

“  But  what  is  your  opinion,  Peggotty  ?  ”  said  I. 

I  asked  her,  and  looked  curiously  at  her,  because  she  looked 
so  curiously  at  me. 

“  My  opinion  is,”  said  Peggotty,  taking  her  eyes  from  me, 


28 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


after  a  little  indecision  and  going  on  with  her  work,  “  that  I 
never  was  married  myself,  Master  Davy,  and  that  I  don’t  ex¬ 
pect  to  be.  That’s  all  I  know  about  the  subject.” 

“You  ain’t  cross,  I  suppose,  Peggotty,  are  you?”  said  I, 
after  sitting  quiet  for  a  minute. 

I  really  thought  she  was,  she  had  been  so  short  with  me  ; 
but  I  was  quite  mistaken  :  for  she  laid  aside  her  work  (which 
was  a  stocking  of  her  own),  and  opening  her  arms  wide,  took 
my  curly  head  within  them,  and  gave  it  a  good  squeeze.  I 
know  it  was  a  good  squeeze,  because,  being  very  plump,  when¬ 
ever  she  made  any  little  exertion  after  she  was  dressed,  some 
of  the  buttons  on  the  back  of  her  gown  flew  off.  And  I  recol¬ 
lect  two  bursting  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  parlor,  while  she 
was  hugging  me. 

“  Now  let  me  hear  some  more  about  the  Crorkindills,”  said 
Peggotty,  who  was  not  quite  right  in  the  name  yet,  “  for  I  an’t 
heard  half  enough.” 

I  couldn’t  quite  understand  why  Peggotty  looked  so  queer, 
or  why  she  was  so  ready  to  go  back  to  the  crocodiles.  How¬ 
ever,  we  returned  to  those  monsters,  with  fresh  wakefulness  on 
my  part,  and  we  left  their  eggs  in  the  sand  for  the  sun  to  hatch  ; 
and  we  ran  away  from  them,  and  baffled  them  by  constantly 
turning,  which  they  were  unable  to  do  quickly,  on  account  of 
their  unwieldy  make  :  and  we  went  into  the  water  after  them, 
as  natives,  and  put  sharp  pieces  of  timber  down  their  throats  ; 
and  in  short  we  ran  the  whole  crocodile  gauntlet.  I  did,  at 
least ;  but  I  had  my  doubts  of  Peggotty. 


AT  this  we  all  fell  a-crying  together.  I  think  I  was  the 
loudest  of  the  party,  but  I  am  sure  we  were  all  sincere 
about  it.  I  was  quite  heart-broken  myself,  and  am  afraid  that  in 
the  first  transports  of  wounded  tenderness  I  called  Peggotty  a 
“  Beast.”  That  honest  creature  was  in  deep  affliction,  I  re¬ 
member,  and  must  have  become  quite  buttonless  on  the  oc¬ 
casion  :  for  a  little  volley  of  those  explosives  went  off,  when, 


WITTICISMS. 


29 


after  having  made  it  up  with  my  mother,  she  kneeled  down  by 
the  elbow-chair,  and  made  it  up  with  me. 

We  went  to  bed  greatly  dejected.  My  sobs  kept  waking 
me,  for  a  long  time ;  and  when  one  very  strong  sob  quite 
hoisted  me  up  in  bed,  I  found  my  mother  sitting  on  the  cov¬ 
erlet,  and  leaning  over  me.  I  fell  asleep  in  her  arms,  after 
that,  and  slept  soundly. 

rT",HEY  left  me,  during  this  time,  with  a  very  nice  man,  with 
a  very  large  head  of  red  hair  and  a  very  small  shiny  hat 
upon  it,  who  had  got  a  cross-barred  shirt  or  waistcoat  on,  with 
“Skylark”  in  capital  letters  across  the  chest.  I  thought  it  was 
his  name  ;  and  that  as  he  lived  on  board  ship  and  hadn’t  a 
street-door  to  put  his  name  on,  he  put  it  there  instead;  but 
when  I  called  him  Mr.  Skylark,  he  said  it  meant  the  vessel. 


I  OFFERED  him  a  cake  as  a  mark  of  attention,  which  he 
ate  at  one  gulp,  exactly  like  an  elephant,  and  which  made 
no  more  impression  on  his  big  face  than  it  would  have  done 
on  an  elephant’s. 

“  Did  she  make  ’em,  now  ?”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  always  leaning 
forward,  in  his  slouching  way,  on  the  footboard  of  the  cart  with 
an  arm  on  each  knee. 

“  Peggotty,  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Mr.  Barkis.  “  Her.” 

“  Yes.  She  makes  all  our  pastry  and  does  all  our  cooking.” 
“  Do  she  though  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  made  up  his  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  but  he  didn’t  whistle. 
He  sat  looking  at  the  horse’s  ears,  as  if  he  saw  something  new 
there  ;  and  sat  so  for  a  considerable  time.  By  and  by  he 
said  : 

“  No  sweethearts,  I  b’lieve  ?  ” 

“  Sweetmeats  did  you  say,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  ”  For  I  thought  he 
wanted  something  else  to  eat,  and  had  pointedly  alluded  to 
that  description  of  refreshment. 


3o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Hearts,”  said  Mr.  Barkis.  “  Sweethearts  :  no  person  walks 
with  her? ” 

“  With  Peggotty  ?  ” 

“  Ah  !  ”  he  said.  “  Her.” 

“  Oh,  no.  She  never  had  a  sweetheart.” 

“  Didn’t  she,  though?”  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Again  he  made  up  his  mouth  to  whistle,  and  again  he  didn’t 
whistle,  but  sat  looking  at  the  horse’s  ears. 

“  So  she  makes,”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  after  a  long  interval  of 
reflection,  “  all  the  apple  parsties,  and  doos  all  the  cooking,  do 
she  ?  ” 

I  replied  that  such  was  the  fact. 

“Well.  I’ll  tell  you  what,”  said  Mr.  Barkis.  “P’raps  you 
might  be  writin’  to  her  ?  ” 

“I  shall  certainly  write  to  her,”  I  rejoined. 

“  Ah !  ”  he  said,  slowly  turning  his  eyes  towards  me.  “  Well ! 
if  you  was  writin’  to  her,  p’raps  you’d  recollect  to  say  that  Bar¬ 
kis  was  willin’  ;  would  you  ?  ” 

“That  Barkis  was  willing,”  I  repeated  innocently.  “Is  that 
all  the  message  ?  ” 

“Ye — es,”  he  said,  considering.  “Ye — es.  Barkis  is 
willin’.” 

“But  you  will  be  at  Blunderstone  again  to-morrow,  Mr.  Bar¬ 
kis,”  I  said,  faltering  a  little  at  the  idea  of  my  being  far  away 
from  it  then,  “  and  could  give  your  own  message  so  much  bet¬ 
ter.” 

As  he  repudiated  this  suggestion,  however,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head,  and  once  more  confirmed  his  previous  request  by  saying, 
with  profound  gravity,  “  Barkis  is  willin’.  That’s  the  message,” 
I  readily  undertook  its  transmission.  While  I  was  waiting  for 
the  coach  in  the  hotel  at  Yarmouth  that  very  afternoon,  I  pro¬ 
cured  a  sheet  of  paper  and  an  inkstand  and  wrote  a  note  to 
Peggotty,  which  ran  thus  :  “  My  dear  Peggotty.  I  have  come 
here  safe.  Barkis  is  willing.  My  love  to  mamma.  Yours  af¬ 
fectionately.  P.  S.  He  says  he  particularly  wants  you  to 
know — Barkis  is  willing .” 


WITTICISMS. 


31 


TV  T  OW,  here  you  see  young  David  Copperfield,  and  the 
JL  question  I  put  to  you  is,  what  shall  I  do  with  him  ?  ” 
“What  shall  you  do  with  him?”  said  Mr.  Dick,  feebly, 
scratching  his  head.  “  Oh  !  do  with  him  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  my  aunt,  with  a  grave  look,  and  her  forefinger 
held  up.  “  Come  !  I  want  some  very  sound  advice.” 

“Why,  if  I  was  you,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  considering,  and  look¬ 
ing  vacantly  at  me,  “  I  should—1 ”  The  contemplation  of  me 
seemed  to  inspire  him  with  a  sudden  idea,  and  he  added  briskly, 
“- — I  should  wash  him  !  ” 

“Janet,”  said  my  aunt,  turning  round  with  a  quiet  triumph, 
which  I  did  not  then  understand,  “Mr.  Dick  sets  us  all  right. 
Heat  the  bath  !  ” 

AFTER  tea,  we  sat  at  the  window — -on  the  look-out,  as  I 
imagined,  from  my  aunt’s  sharp  expression  of  face,  for 
more  invaders — until  dusk,  when  Janet  set  candles  and  a  back¬ 
gammon-board  on  the  table,  and  pulled  down  the  blinds. 

“  Now,  Mr.  Dick,”  said  my  aunt,  with  her  grave  look,  and  her 
forefinger  up  as  before,  “  I  am  going  to  ask  you  another  ques¬ 
tion.  Look  at  this  child.” 

“David’s  son?”  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  attentive,  puzzled 
face. 

“Exactly  so,”  returned  my  aunt.  “What  would  you  do 
with  him,  now  ?  ” 

“  Do  with  David’s  son  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Dick. 

“Ay,”  replied  my  aunt,  “with  David’s  son.” 

“Oh!”  said  Mr.  Dick.  “Yes.  Do  with — I  should  put 
him  to  bed.” 

t 

u  yV  ND  now,  what  have  you  got  to  say  next?” 

x\.  “  Merely  this,  Miss  Trotwood,”  he  returned.  “  I  am 

here  to  take  David  back  \  to  take  him  back  unconditionally, 
to  dispose  of  him  as  I  think  proper,  and  to  deal  with  him  as  I 
think  right.  I  am  not  here  to  make  any  promise,  or  give  any 
pledge  to  anybody.  You  may  possibly  have  some  idea,  Miss 


32 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Trotwood,  of  abetting  him  in  his  running  away,  and  in  his  com¬ 
plaints  to  you.  Your  manner,  which  I  must  say  does  not  seem 
intended  to  propitiate,  induces  me  to  think  it  possible.  Now 
I  must  caution  you  that  if  you  abet  him  once,  you  abet  him  for 
good  and  all ;  if  you  step  in  between  him  and  me,  now,  you 
must  step  in,  Miss  Trotwood,  forever.  I  cannot  trifle,  or  be 
trifled  with.  I  am  here  for  the  first  and  last  time,  to  take  him 
away.  Is  he  ready  to  go  ?  If  he  is  not — and  you  tell  me  he 
is  not ;  on  any  pretence  ;  it  is  indifferent  to  me  what — my 
doors  are  shut  against  him  henceforth,  and  yours,  I  take  it  for 
granted,  are  open  to  him.” 

To  this  address  my  aunt  had  listened  with  the  closest  atten¬ 
tion,  sitting  perfectly  upright,  with  her  hands  folded  on  one 
knee,  and  looking  grimly  on  the  speaker.  When  he  had  fin¬ 
ished,  she  turned  her  eyes  so  as  to  command  Miss  Murdstone,  * 
without  otherwise  disturbing  her  attitude,  and  said : 

“  Well,  ma’am,  have  you  got  anything  to  remark  ?  ” 

“  Indeed,  Miss  Trotwood,”  said  Miss  Murdstone,  “  all  that 
I  could  say  has  been  so  well  said  by  my  brother,  and  all  that  I 
know  to  be  the  fact  has  been  so  plainly  stated  by  him,  that  I 
have  nothing  to  add  except  my  thanks  for  your  politeness. 
For  your  very  great  politeness,  I  am  sure,”  said  Miss  Murd¬ 
stone  ;  with  an  irony  which  no  more  affected  my  aunt  than  it 
discomposed  the  cannon  I  had  slept  by  at  Chatham. 

“  And  what  does  the  boy  say  ?  ”  said  my  aunt.  “  Are  you 
ready  to  go,  David  ?  ” 

I  answered  no,  and  entreated  her  not  to  let  me  go.  I  said 
that  neither  Mr.  nor  Miss  Murdstone  had  ever  liked  me,  or  had 
ever  been  kind  to  me.  That  they  had  made  my  mamma,  who 
always  loved  me  dearly,  unhappy  about  me,  and  that  I  knew  it 
well,  and  that  Peggotty  knew  it.  I  said  that  I  had  been  more 
miserable  than  I  thought  anybody  could  believe  who  only  knew 
how  young  I  was.  And  I  begged  and  prayed  my  aunt — I  for¬ 
get  in  what  terms  now,  but  I  remember  that  they  affected  me 
very  much  then — to  befriend  and  protect  me  for  my  father’s 
sake. 


WITTICISMS. 


33 


“Mr.  Dick,”  said  my  aunt;  “what  shall  I  do  with  this 
child  ?  ” 

Mr.  Dick  considered,  hesitated,  brightened,  and  rejoined, 
“  Have  him  measured  for  a  suit  of  clothes  directly.” 

j 

“  Mr.  Dick,”  said  my  aunt  triumphantly,  “  give  me  your 
hand,  for  your  common  sense  is  invaluable.” 

HE  received  me  with  absolute  enthusiasm.  He  was  too 
rheumatic  to  be  shaken  hands  with,  but  he  begged  me 
to  shake  the  tassel  on  the  top  of  his  nightcap,  which  I  did  most 
cordially.  When  I  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  he  said 
that  it  did  him  a  world  of  good  to  feel  as  if  he  was  driving  me 
on  the  Blunderstone  road  again.  As  he  lay  in  bed,  face  up¬ 
ward,  and  so  covered,  with  that  exception,  that  he  seemed  to 
be  nothing  but  a  face — like  a  conventional  cherubim — he 
looked  the  queerest  object  I  ever  beheld. 

66  ENTLEMEN,”  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  “do  with  me 
V_X  as  you  will !  I  am  a  straw  upon  the  surface  of  the 
deep,  and  am  tossed  in  all  directions  by  the  elephants — I  beg 
your  pardon ;  I  should  have  said  the  elements.” 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

THE  resolution  was,  of  course,  carried  with  loud  acclama¬ 
tions,  every  man  holding  up  both  hands  in  favor  of  it,  as 
’he  would  in  his  enthusiasm  have  held  up  both  legs  also,  if  he 
could  have  conveniently  accomplished  it. 

THESE  facts  were  no  sooner  thoroughly  ascertained,  than 
the  lady  gave  several  indications  of  fainting,  but  being 
forewarned  that  if  she  did,  she  must  be  carried  on  some  gentle- 
2* 


34 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


man’s  shoulders  to  the  nearest  public-house,  she  prudently 
thought  better  of  it,  and  walked  back  with  the  rest. 

AND  so  Miss  Squeers  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
take  a  personal  observation  of  Nicholas  the  next  day. 

In  pursuance  of  this  design,  the  young  lady  watched  the  op¬ 
portunity  of  her  mother  being  engaged,  and  her  father  absent, 
and  went  accidentally  into  the  school-room  to  get  a  pen 
mended  :  where  seeing  nobody  but  Nicholas  presiding  over  the 
boys,  she  blushed  very  deeply,  and  exhibited  great  confusion. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  faltered  Miss  Squeers  ;  “I  thought  my 
father  was— or  might  be — dear  me,  how  very  awkward  !  ” 

“  Mr.  Squeers  is  out,”  said  Nicholas,  by  no  means  overcome 
by  the  apparition,  unexpected  though  it  was. 

“  Do  you  know  will  he  be  long,  sir  ?  ”  asked  Miss  Squeers, 
with  bashful  hesitation. 

“  He  said  about  an  hour,”  replied  Nicholas — politely  of 
course,  but  without  any  indication  of  being  stricken  to  the  heart 
by  Miss  Squeers’ s  charms. 

“  I  never  knew  anything  happen  so  cross,”  exclaimed  the 
young  lady.  “  Thank  you  !  I  am  very  sorry  I  intruded,  I  am 
sure.  If  I  hadn’t  thought  my  father  was  here,  I  wouldn’t  upon 
any  account  have — it  is  very  provoking — must  look  so  very 
strange,”  murmured  Miss  Squeers,  blushing  once  more,  and 
glancing,  from  the  pen  in  her  hand,  to  Nicholas  at  his  desk,  and 
back  again. 

“  If  that  is  all  you  want,”  said  Nicholas,  pointing  to  the  pen,  • 
and  smiling,  in  spite  of  himself,  at  the  affected  embarrassment  of 
the  schoolmaster’s  daughter,  “perhaps  I  can  supply  his  place.” 

Miss  Squeers  glanced  at  the  door,  as  if  dubious  of  the  pro¬ 
priety  of  advancing  any  nearer  to  an  utter  stranger ;  then  round 
the  school-room,  as  though  in  some  measure  reassured  by  the 
presence  of  forty  boys  ;  and  finally  sidled  up  to  Nicholas  and 
delivered  the  pen  into  his  hand,  with  a  most  winning  mixture 
of  reserve  and  condescension. 


WITTICISMS. 

“  Shall  it  be  a  hard  or  a  soft  nib  ?  ”  inquired  Nicholas,  smil¬ 
ing,  to  prevent  himself  from  laughing  outright. 

“  He  has  a  beautiful  smile/’  thought  Miss  Squeers. 

u  Which  did  you  say?”  asked  Nicholas. 

“  Dear  me,  I  was  thinking  of  something  else  for  the  mo¬ 
ment,  I  declare,”  replied  Miss  Squeers — “  Oh  !  as  soft  as  pos¬ 
sible,  if  you  please.”  With  which  words,  Miss  Squeers  sighed. 
It  might  be,  to  give  Nicholas  to  understand  that  her  heart  was 
soft,  and  that  the  pen  was  wanted  to  match. 

Upon  these  instructions  Nicholas  made  the  pen  ;  when  he 
gave  it  to  Miss  Squeers,  Miss  Squeers  dropped  it ;  and  when 
he  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  Miss  Squeers  stooped  also,  and  they 
knocked  their  heads  together ;  whereat  five-and-twenty  little 
boys  laughed  aloud  :  being  positively  for  the  first  and  only 
time  that  half  year. 

“Very  awkward  of  me,”  said  Nicholas,  opening  the  door  for 
the  young  lady’s  retreat. 

“  Not  at  all,  sir,”  replied  Miss  Squeers ;  “  it  was  my  fault. 
It  was  all  my  foolish — a — a — good-morning  !  ” 

“  Good-by,”  said  Nicholas.  “  The  next  I  make  for  you,  I 
hope  will  be  made  less  clumsily.  Take  care  !  You  are  biting 
the  nib  off  now.” 

“ Really,”  said  Miss  Squeers ;  “so  embarrassing  that  I 
scarcely  know  what  I — very  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble.” 

“Not  the  least  trouble  in  the  world,”  replied  Nicholas,  clos¬ 
ing  the  school-room  door. 

“  I  never  saw  such  legs  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life  !  ”  said 
Miss  Squeers,  as  she  walked  away. 

In  fact,  Miss  Squeers  was  in:  love  with  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

T  ’M  going  to  be  married,  and  lead  a  new  life.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

i  a  new  life,  a  new  life  !  ha,  ha,  ha  !  ” 

It  was  a  satisfactory  thing  to  hear  that  the  old  gentleman 
was  going  to  lead  a  new  life,  for  it  was  pretty  evident  that  his 
old  one  would  not  last  him  much  longer. 


3^ 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


U  \/r  OU  don’t  quite  know  what  Mrs.  Crummies  is,  yet.” 

1  Nicholas  ventured  to  insinuate  that  he  thought  he  did. 

“No,  no,  you  don’t,”  said  Mr.  Crummies;  “you  don’t  in¬ 
deed.  I  don’t,  and  that’s  a  fact.  I  don’t  think  her  country 
will,  till  she  is  dead.  Some  new  proof  of  talent  bursts  from 
that  astonishing  woman  every  year  of  her  life.  Look  at  her, 
mother  of  six  children,  three  of  ’em  alive,  and  all  upon  the 
stage  !  ” 

“  Extraordinary  !  ”  cried  Nicholas. 

“Ahi  extraordinary  indeed,”  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies,  tak¬ 
ing  a  complacent  pinch  of  snuff,  and  shaking  his  head  gravely. 
“  I  pledge  you  my  professional  word  I  didn’t  even  know  she 
could  dance,  till  her  last  benefit,  and  then  she  played  Juliet, 
and  Helen  Macgregor,  and  did  the  skipping  hornpipe  between 
the  pieces.  The  very  first  time  I  saw  that  admirable  woman, 
Johnson,”  said  Mr.  Crummies,  drawing  a  little  nearer,  and 
speaking  in  the  tone  of  confidential  friendship,  “  she  stood  upon 
her  head  on  the  but-end  of  a  spear,  surrounded  with  blazing 
fireworks.” 

“You  astonish  me  !  ”  said  Nicholas. 

“  She  astonished  me  !  ”  returned  Mr.  Crummies,  with  a  very 
serious  countenance.  “  Such  grace,  coupled  with  such  dignity ! 
I  adored  her  from  that  moment !  ” 

u  T/7"  ATE,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Nickleby;  “I  don’t  know 

XV  how  it  is,  but  a  fine  warm  summer  day  like  this,  with 
the  birds  singing  in  every  direction,  always  puts  me  in  mind  of 
roast  pig,  with  sage  and  onion  sauce,  and  made  gravy.” 

“That’s  a  curious  association  of  ideas,  is  it  not,  mamma?” 

“Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  I  don’t  know,”  replied  Mrs. 
Nickleby.  “  Roast  pig  ;  let  me  see.  On  the  day  five  weeks 
after  you  were  christened,  we  had  a  roast — no  that  couldn’t 
have  been  a  pig,  either,  because  I  recollect  there  were  a  pair 
of  them  to  carve,  and  your  poor  papa  and  I  could  never  have 
thought  of  sitting  down  to  two  pigs — they  must  have  been 
partridges.  Roast  pig !  I  hardly  think  we  ever  could  have 


WITTICISMS. 


37 


had  one,  now  I  come  to  remember,  for  your  papa  could  never 
bear  the  sight  of  them  in  the  shops,  and  used  to  say  that  they 
always  put  him  in  mind  of  very  little  babies,  only  the  pigs  had 
much  fairer  complexions ;  and  he  had  a  horror  of  little  babies, 
too,  because  he  couldn’t  very  well  afford  any  increase  to  his 
family,  and  had  a  natural  dislike  to  the  subject.  It’s  very  odd 
now,  what  can  have  put  that  in  my  head!  I  recollect  dining 
once  at  Mrs.  Bevan’s,  in  that  broad  street  round  the  corner  by 
the  coachmaker’s,  where  the  tipsy  man  fell  through  the  cellar- 
flap  of  an  empty  house  nearly  a  week  before  the  quarter-day, 
and  wasn’t  found  till  the  new  tenant  went  in — and  we  had 
roast  pig  there.  It  must  be  that,  I  think,  that  reminds  me  of 
it,  especially  as  there  was  a  little  bird  in  the  room  that  would 
keep  on  singing  all  the  time  of  dinner — at  least  not  a  little  bird, 
for  it  was  a  parrot,  and  he  didn’t  sing  exactly,  for  he  talked  and 
swore  dreadfully ;  but  I  think  it  must  be  that.  Indeed  I  am 
sure  it  must.  Shouldn’t  you  say  so,  my  dear?” 

L  ^  O  HE  is  come  !  ”  said  the  old  gentleman,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  heart.  “  Cormoran  and  Blunderbore  !  She  is 
come  !  All  the  wealth  I  have  is  hers  if  she  will  take  me  for 
her  slave.  Where  are  grace,  beauty,  and  blandishments,  like 
those  ?  In  the  Empress  of  Madagascar?  No.  In  the  Queen 
of  Diamonds?  No.  In  Mrs.  Rowland,  who  every  morning 
bathes  in  Kalydor  for  nothing?  No.  Melt  all  these  down  into 
one,  with  the  three  graces,  the  nine  Muses,  and  fourteen  biscuit- 
makers’  daughters  from  Oxford  Street,  and  make  a  woman  half 
as  lovely.  Pho  !  I  defy  you.” 


FROM  THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

IT  was  a  maxim  with  Mr.  Brass  that  the  habit  of  paying 
compliments  kept  a  man’s  tongue  oiled  without  any  expense ; 
and,  as  that  useful  member  ought  never  to  grow  rusty  or  creak 


3« 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


in  turning  on  its  hinges  in  the  case  of  a  practitioner  of  the  law, 
in  whom  it  should  be  always  glib  and  easy,  he  lost  few  oppor¬ 
tunities  of  improving  himself  by  the  utterance  of  handsome 
speeches  and  eulogistic  expressions. 


TT  7"E  have  been  distracted  with  fears  that  you  were  dead, 
V  V  sir,”  said  Dick,  gently  sliding  to  the  ground,  “  and 
the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  we  cannot  allow  single  gen¬ 
tlemen  to  come  into  this  establishment  and  sleep  like  double 
gentlemen  without  paying  extra  for  it  ?  ” 

“  Indeed  !  ”  cried  the  lodger. 

“Yes,  sir,  indeed,”  returned  Dick,  yielding  to  his  destiny 
and  saying  whatever  came  uppermost ;  “  an  equal  quantity  of 
slumber  was  never  got  out  of  one  bed  and  bedstead,  and  if 
you’re  going  to  sleep  in  that  way,  you  must  pay  for  a  double- 
bedded  room.” 


U  IT  ONESTY  is  the  best  policy.— I  always  find  it  so  my- 
X  X  self.  I  lost  forty-seven  pound  ten  by  being  honest 
this  morning.  But  it’s  all  gain,  it’s  gain  !  ” 

Mr.  Brass  slyly  tickles  his  nose  with  his  pen,  and  looks  at 
Kit  with  the  water  standing  in  his  eyes.  Kit  thinks  that  if 
ever  there  was  a  good  man  who  belied  his  appearance,  that 
man  is  Sampson  Brass. 

“A  man,”  says  Sampson,  “who  loses  forty-seven  pounds 
ten  in  one  morning  by  his  honesty,  is  a  man  to  be  envied.  If 
it  had  been  eighty  pound,  the  luxuriousness  of  feeling  would 
have  been  increased.  Every  pound  lost  would  have  been  a 
hundredweight  of  happiness  gained.  The  still  small  voice, 
Christopher,”  cries  Brass,  smiling,  and  tapping  himself  on  the 
bosom,  “  is  a-singing  comic  songs  within  me,  and  all  is  happi¬ 
ness  and  joy  1  ” 


WITTICISMS. 


39 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


S  to  being  a  reference,”  said  Pancks,  “you  know  in  a 


general  way  what  being  a  reference  means.  It’s  all 
your  eye,  that  is  !  Look  at  your  tenants  down  the  Yard  here. 
They’d  all  be  references  for  one  another,  if  you’d  let  ’em.  What 
would  be  the  good  of  letting  ’em  ?  It’s  no  satisfaction  to  be 
done  by  two  men  instead  of  one.  One’s  enough.  A  person 
who  can’t  pay,  gets  another  person  who  can’t  pay,  to  guarantee 
that  he  can  pay.  Like  a  person  with  two  wooden  legs,  getting 
another  person  with  two  wooden  legs,  to  guarantee  that  he  has 
got  two  natural  legs.  It  don’t  make  either  of  them  able  to  do 
a  walking-match.  And  four  wooden  legs  are  more  trouble¬ 
some  to  you  than  two,  when  you  don’t  want  any.”  Mr. 
Pancks  concluded  by  blowing  off  that  steam  of  his. 


MY,”  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  “you  have  just  now  been  the 


subject  of  some  conversation  between  myself  and  Mrs. 


General.  We  agree  that  you  scarcely  seem  at  home  here. 
Ha — how  is  this  ?  ” 

A  pause. 

“I  think,  father,  I  require  a  little  time.” 

“Papa  is  a  preferable  mode  of  address,”  observed  Mrs. 
General.  “Father  is  rather  vulgar,  my  dear.  The  word 
Papa,  besides,  gives  a  pretty  form  to  the  lips.  Papa,  potatoes, 
poultry,  prunes,  and  prism,  are  all  very  good  words  for  the 
lips :  especially  prunes  and  prism.  You  will  find  it  serviceable, 
in  the  formation  of  a  demeanor,  if  you  sometimes  say  to  your¬ 
self  in  company — on  entering  a  room,  for  instance  Papa, 
potatoes,  poultry,  prunes  and  prism,  prunes  and  prism.” 

“  Pray,  my  child,”  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  “  attend  to  the  hum 
precepts  of  Mrs.  General.” 

Poor  little  Dorrit,  with  a  rather  forlorn  glance  at  that 
eminent  varnisher,  promised  to  try. 


40 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


THIS  conjunction  of  circumstances  led  to  his  immediately 
afterwards  presenting  himself  before  the  young  ladies  in 
a  posture,  which  in  ancient  times  would  not  have  been  con¬ 
sidered  one  of  favorable  augury  for  his  suit ;  since  the  gondo¬ 
liers  of  the  young  ladies,  having  been  put  to  some  inconvenience 
by  the  chase,  so  neatly  brought  their  own  boat  in  the  gentlest 
collision  with  the  bark  of  Mr.  Sparkler,  as  to  tip  that  gentle¬ 
man  over  like  a  large  species  of  ninepin,  and  cause  him  to 
exhibit  the  soles  of  his  shoes  to  the  object  of  his  dearest 
wishes :  while  the  nobler  portions  of  his  anatomy  struggled  at 
the  bottom  of  his  boat,  in  the  arms  of  one  of  his  men. 

u  /T  R.  CLENNAM,  don’t  you  take  no  notice  of  my  son 
IV X  (if  you’ll  be  so  good)  in  case  you  find  him  cut  up  any 
ways  difficult.  My  son  has  a  ’art,  and  my  son’s  ’art  is  in  the 
right  place.  Me  and  his  mother  knows  where  to  find  it,  and  we 
find  it  sitiwated  correct.” 

MR.  PANCKS  led  an  unhappy  and  restless  life  ;  constant¬ 
ly  carrying  his  figures  about  with  him  in  his  hat,  and  not 
only  going  over  them  himself  on  every  possible  occasion,  but 
entreating  every  human  being  he  could  lay  hold  of  to  go  over 
them  with  him,  and  observe  what  a  clear  case  it  was.  Down 
in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  there  was  scarcely  an  inhabitant  of 
any  note  to  whom  Mr.  Pancks  had  not  imparted  his  demonstra¬ 
tion,  and,  as  figures  are  catching,  a  kind  of  ciphering  measles 
broke  out  in  that  locality,  under  the  influence  of  which  the 
whole  Yard  was  light-headed. 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 

IT  would  be  no  description  of  Mr.  Pecksniff’s  gentleness  of 
manner  to  adopt  the  common  parlance,  and  say,  that  he 
looked  at  this  moment  as  if  butter  wouldn’t  melt  in  his  mouth. 


WITTICISMS. 


41 


He  rather  looked  as  if  any  quantity  of  butter  might  have  been 
made  out  of  him,  by  churning  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  as 
it  spouted  upwards  from  his  heart. 

66  "THEN  I  will  not,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff.  “You  are  quite 
JL  right,  my  dear  madam,  and  I  appreciate  and  thank  you 
for  your  discriminating  objection — our  respected  relative,  to 
dispose  him  to  listen  to  the  promptings  of  nature,  and  not 
to  the — ” 

“  Go  on,  pa  !  ”  cried  Mercy. 

“  Why,  the  truth  is,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  smiling 
upon  his  assembled  kindred,  “  that  I  am  at  a  loss  for  a  word. 
The  name  of  those  fabulous  animals  (pagan,  I  regret  to  say) 
who  used  to  sing  in  the  water,  has  quite  escaped  me.” 

Mr.  George  Chuzzlewit  suggested  “  Swans.” 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff.  “Not  swans.  Very  like  swans, 
too.  Thank  you.” 

The  nephew  with  the  outline  of  a  countenance,  speaking  for 
the  first  and  last  time  on  that  occasion,  propounded  “  Oysters.” 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  with  his  own  peculiar  urbanity, 
“  nor  oysters.  But  by  no  means  unlike  oysters  ;  a  very  excel¬ 
lent  idea  ;  thank  you,  my  dear  sir,  very  much.  Wait !  Sirens. 
Dear  me  !  sirens,  of  course.  I  think,  I  say,  that  means  might 
be  devised  of  disposing  our  respected  relative  to  listen  to  the 
promptings  of  nature,  and  not  to  the  siren-like  delusions  of 
art. 

UTF  Mr.  George  Chuzzlewit  has  anything  to  say  to  me ,”  in- 

X  terposed  the  strong-minded  woman,  sternly,  “  I  beg  him  to 
speak  out  like  a  man  ;  and  not  to  look  at  me  and  my  daughters 
as  if  he  could  eat  us.” 

“As  to  looking,  I  have  heard  it  said,  Mrs.  Ned,”  returned 
Mr.  George,  angrily,  “  that  a  cat  is  free  to  contemplate  a  mon¬ 
arch  ;  and  therefore  I  hope  I  have  some  right,  having  been 
born  a  member  of  this  family,  to  look  at  a  person  who  only 


42 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


came  into  it  by  marriage.  As  to  eating,  I  beg  to  say,  whatever 
bitterness  your  jealousies  and  disappointed  expectations  may 
suggest  to  you,  that  I  am  not  a  cannibal,  ma’am.” 

“  I  don’t  know  that  !  ”  cried  the  strong-minded  woman. 

“  At  all  events,  if  I  was  a  cannibal,”  said  Mr.  George  Chuz- 
zlewit,  greatly  stimulated  by  this  retort,  “  I  think  it  would  occur 
to  me  that  a  lady  who  had  outlived  three  husbands,  and 
suffered  so  very  little  from  their  loss,  must  be  uncommonly 
tough.” 

64 7" OU  leave  the  recompense  to  me?”  said  the  old  man, 
JL  after  a  minute’s  silence. 

“  Oh  !  do  not  speak  of  recompense  ?  ”  cried  Pecksniff. 

“  I  say,”  repeated  Martin,  with  a  glimmer  of  his  old  obsti¬ 
nacy,  “you  leave  the  recompense  to  me.  Do  you  ?  ” 

“  Since  you  desire  it,  my  good  sir.” 

“  I  always  desire  it,”  said  the  old  man.  “  You  know  I  al¬ 
ways  desire  it.  I  wish  to  pay  as  I  go,  even  when  I  buy  of  you. 
Not  that  I  do  not  leave  a  balance  to  be  settled  one  day,  Peck¬ 
sniff.” 

The  architect  was  too  much  overcome  to  speak.  He  tried 
to  drop  a  tear  upon  his  patron’s  hand,  but  couldn’t  find  one  in 
his  dry  distillery. 

46  ~W  I  HAT  boat  did  you  want  ?”  asked  Ruth. 

V  V  “  The  Ank works  package,”  Mrs.  Gamp  replied. 
“  I  will  not  deceive  you,  my  sweet.  Why  should  I  ?  ” 

“  That  is  the  Antwerp  packet  in  the  middle,”  said  Ruth. 
“And  I  wish  it  was  in  Jonadge’s  belly,  I  do,”  cried  Mrs. 
Gamp  ;  appearing  to  confound  the  prophet  with  the  whale  in 
this  miraculous  aspiration. 

^  1\  /T  ARK-  •”  said  Tom  Pinch,  energetically  :  “if  you  don’t 
-.VX  sit  down  this  minute,  I’ll  swear  at  you  !  ” 

“Well,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Tapley,  “sooner  than  you  should 


WITTICISMS. 


43 


do  that,  I’ll  com-ply.  It’s  a  considerable  invasion  of  a  man’s 
jollity  to  be  made  so  partickler  welcome,  but  a  Werb  is  a  word 
as  signifies  to  be,  to  do,  or  to  suffer  (which  is  all  the  grammar, 
and  enough  too,  as  ever  I  wos  taught) ;  and  if  there’s  a  Werb 
alive,  I’m  it.  For  I’m  always  a  bein’,  sometimes  a  doin’,  and 
continually  a  sufferin’.” 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE 


ID  you  ever  hear  tell  of  mermaids,  sir?”  said  Mr. 


Willet. 


“  Certainly  I  have,”  replied  the  clerk. 

“Very  good,”  said  Mr.  Willet.  “According  to  the  consti¬ 
tution  of  mermaids,  so  much  of  a  mermaid  as  is  not  a  woman 
must  be  a  fish.  According  to  the  constitution  of  young  princes, 
so  much  of  a  young  prince  (if  anything)  as  is  not  actually  an 
angel,  must  be  godly  and  righteous.  Therefore  if  it’s  becoming 
and  godly  and  righteous  in  the  young  princes  (as  it  is  at  their 
ages)  that  they  should  be  boys,  they  are  and  must  be  boys,  and 
cannot  by  possibility  be  anything  else.” 

HE  proceedings  of  such  a  day  occasioned  various  fluc- 


JL  tuations  in  the  human  thermometer,  and  especially  in  in¬ 
struments  so  sensitively  and  delicately  constructed  as  Mrs.  Var- 
den.  Thus,  at  dinner  Mrs.  V.  stood  at  summer  heat ;  genial, 
smiling,  and  delightful.  After  dinner,  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
wine,  she  went  up  at  least  half  a  dozen  degrees,  and  was  perfectly 
enchanting.  As  its  effect  subsided,  she  fell  rapidly,  went  to 
sleep  for  an  hour  or  so  at  temperate,  and  woke  at  something 
below  freezing.  Now  she  was  at  summer  heat  again,  in  the 
shade  ;  and  when  tea  was  over,  and  old  John,  producing  a 
bottle  of  cordial  from  one  of  the  oaken  cases,  insisted  on  her 
sipping  two  glasses  thereof  in  slow  succession,  she  stood 


44 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


steadily  at  ninety  for  one  hour  and  a  quarter.  Profiting  by  ex¬ 
perience,  the  locksmith  took  advantage  of  this  genial  weather 
to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  porch,  and  in  consequence  of  this 
prudent  management,  he  was  fully  prepared,  when  the  glass 
went  down  again,  to  start  homewards  directly. 

aTF  time  were  money,”  he  said,  handling  his  snuff-box,  “  I 
1  would  compound  with  my  creditors,  and  give  them — let 
me  see — how  much  a  day?  There’s  my  nap  after  dinner — an 
hour — they’re  extremely  welcome  to  that,  and  to  make  the 
most  of  it.  In  the  morning,  between  my  breakfast  and  the  pa¬ 
per,  I  could  spare  them  another  hour  ;  in  the  evening,  before 
dinner,  say  another.  Three  hours  a  day.  They  might  pay 
themselves  in  calls,  with  interest,  in  twelve  months.  I  think  I 
shall  propose  it  to  them. 

AND  yet  here  was  this  same  Dolly  Varden,  so  whimsical  and 
hard  to  please  that  she  was  Dolly  Varden  still,  all  smiles 
and  dimples,  and  pleasant  looks,  and  caring  no  more  for  the  fifty 
or  sixty  young  fellows  who  at  that  very  moment  were  breaking 
their  hearts  to  marry  her,  than  if  so  many  oysters  had  been 
crossed  in  love  and  opened  afterwards. 


FROM  OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 

66  TVON’T  talk  of  children.  I  can’t  bear  children.  I  know 
JLx  their  tricks  and  their  manners.”  She  said  this  with 
an  angry  little  shake  of  her  right  fist  close  before  her  eyes. 

Perhaps  it  scarcely  required  the  teacher-habit  to  perceive 
that  the  doll’s  dressmaker  was  inclined  to  be  bitter  on  the 
difference  between  herself  and  other  children.  But  both  master 
and  pupil  understood  it  so. 


WITTICISMS. 


45 


“Always  running  about  and  screeching,  always  playing  and 
fighting,  always  skip-skip-skipping  on  the  pavement  and  chalk¬ 
ing  it  for  their  games  !  Oh !  I  know  their  tricks  and  their 
manners  !  ”  Shaking  the  little  fist  as  before.  “And  that’s  not 
all.  Ever  so  often  calling  names  in  through  a  person’s  key¬ 
hole,  and  imitating  a  person’s  back  and  legs.  Oh !  I  know 
their  tricks  and  their  manners.  And  I’ll  tell  you  what  I’d  do, 
to  punish  ’em.  There’s  doors  under  the  church  in  the  Square 
— black  doors,  leading  into  black  vaults.  Well  !  I’d  open  one 
of  those  doors,  and  I’d  cram  ’em  all  in,  and  then  I’d  lock  the 
door  and  through  the  key-hole  I’d  blow  in  pepper.” 

“What  would  be  the  good  of  blowing  in  pepper?”  asked 
Charley  Hexam. 

“To  set  ’em  sneezing,”  said  the  person  of  the  house,  “and 
make  their  eyes  water.  And  when  they  were  all  sneezing  and 
inflamed,  I’d  mock  ’em  through  the  key-hole.  Just  as  they, 
with  their  tricks  and  their  manners,  mock  a  person  through  a 
person’s  key-hole !” 

An  uncommonly  emphatic  shake  of  her  little  fist  close  before 
her  eyes,  seemed  to  ease  the  mind  of  the  person  of  the  house ; 
for  she  added  with  recovered  composure,  “No,  no,  no.  No 
children  for  me.  Give  me  grown-ups.” 


MR.  and  Mrs.  Lammle’s  house  in  Sackville  Street,  Picca¬ 
dilly,  was  but  a  temporary  residence.  It  had  done  well 
enough,  they  informed  their  friends,  for  Mr.  Lammle  when  a 
bachelor,  but  it  would  not  do  now.  So,  they  were  always  look¬ 
ing  at  palatial  residences  in  the  best  situations,  and  always  very 
nearly  taking  or  buying  one,  but  never  quite  concluding  the 
bargain.  Hereby  they  made  for  themselves  a  shining  little 
reputation  apart.  People  said,  on  seeing  a  vacant  palatial 
residence,  “  the  very  thing  for  the  Lammles  !  ”  and  wrote  to  the 
Lammles  about  it,  and  the  Lammles  always  went  to  look  at 
it,  but  unfortunately  it  never  exactly  answered.  In  short,  they 
suffered  so  many  disappointments,  that  they  began  to  think  it 


46 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


would  be  necessary  to  build  a  palatial  residence.  And  hereby 
they  made  another  shining  reputation ;  many  persons  of  their 


acquaintance  becoming  by  anticipation  dissatisfied  with  their 


own  houses,  and  envious  of  the  non-existent  Lammle  structure. 
kLEDGEBY  deserved  Mr.  Alfred  Lammle1  s  eulogium. 


JL  He  was  the  meanest  cur  existing,  with  a  single  pair  of 
legs.  And  instinct  (a  word  we  all  clearly  understand)  going 
largely  c-n  four  legs,  and  reason  always  on  two,  meanness  on 
four  legs  never  attains  the  perfection  of  meanness  on  two. 

The  father  of  this  young  gentleman  had  been  a  money¬ 
lender,  who  had  transacted  professional  business  with  the 
mother  of  this  young  gentleman,  when  he,  the  latter,  was 
waiting  in  the  vast,  dark  antechambers  of  the  present  world 
to  be  born.  The  lady,  a  widow,  being  unable  to  pay  the 
money-lender,  married  him ;  and  in  due  course,  Fledgeby  was 
summoned  out  of  the  vast,  dark  antechambers  to  come  and 
be  presented  to  the  Registrar-General.  Rather  a  curious  spec¬ 
ulation  how  Fledgeby  would  otherwise  have  disposed  of  his 
leisure  until  Doomsday. 

Fledgeby’ s  mother  offended  her  family  by  marrying  Fledge¬ 
by’ s  father.  It  is  one  of  the  easiest  achievements  in  life  to 
offend  your  family  when  your  family  want  to  get  rid  of  you. 
Fledgeby’ s  mother’s  family  had  been  very  much  offended  with 
her  for  being  poor,  and  broke  with  her  for  becoming  compara¬ 
tively  rich.  Fledgeby’ s  mother’s  family  was  the  Snigsworth 
family.  She  had  even  the  high  honor  to  be  cousin  to  Lord 
Snigsworth — so  many  times  removed  that  the  noble  Earl  would 
have  had  no  compunction  in  removing  her  one  time  more  and 
dropping  her  clean  outside  the  cousinly  pale ;  but  cousin  for 
all  that. 

7” ELL,  ma,”  returned  Lavvy,  “since  you  will  force  it 
V  V  out  of  me,  I  must  respectfully  take  leave  to  say  that 
your  family  are  no  doubt  under  the  greatest  obligations  to  you 


WITTICISMS. 


47 


for  having  an  annual  toothache  on  your  wedding-day,  and  that 
it’s  very  disinterested  in  you,  and  an  immense  blessing  to  them. 
Still,  on  the  whole,  it  is  possible  to  be  too  boastful  even  of 
that  boon.” 

“You  incarnation  of  sauciness,”  said  Mrs.  Wilfer,  “do  you 
speak  like  that  to  me  ?  On  this  day,  of  all  days  in  the  year  ? 
Pray  do  you  know  what  would  have  become  of  you,  if  I  had 
not  bestowed  my  hand  upon  R.  W.,  your  father,  on  this  day?” 

“  No,  ma,”  replied  Lavvy,  “  I  really  do  not ;  and,  with  the 
greatest  respect  for  your  abilities  and  information,  I  very  much 
doubt  if  you  do  either.” 

66  T3UT  what,”  said  Bella,  as  she  watched  the  carving  of  the 
fowls,  “  makes  them  pink  inside,  I  wonder,  pa !  Is  it 
the  breed  ?  ” 

“No,  I  don’t  think  it’s  the  breed,  my  dear,”  returned  pa, 
“  I  rather  think  it  is  because  they  are  not  done.” 


U 


OW  a  mother  can  look  at  her  baby,  and  know  that 
she  lives  beyond  her  husband’s  means,  I  cannot  im¬ 


agine.” 

Eugene  suggests  that  Mrs.  Lammle,  not  being  a  mother,  had 
no  baby  to  look  at. 

“True,”  says  Mrs.  Veneering,  “but  the  principle  is  the 
same.” 


43 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 

- O - 

CHAPTER  II. 

FROM  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. 

66  T  ’VE  been  done  everything  to,  pretty  well — except  hanged. 

X  I’ve  been  locked  up  as  much  as  a  silver  tea-kettle. 
I’ve  been  carted  here  and  carted  there,  and  put  out  of  this  town 
and  put  out  of  that  town,  and  stuck  in  the  stocks,  and  whip¬ 
ped  and  worried  and  drove.  I’ve  no  more  notion  where  I 
was  born,  than  you  have — if  so  much.  I  first  become  aware 
of  myself,  down  in  Essex,  a-thieving  turnips  for  my  living. 
Summun  had  run  away  from  me — a  man — a  tinker — and  he’d 
took  the  fire  with  him,  and  left  me  wery  cold. 

“  I  know’d  my  name  to  be  Magwitch,  christen’d  Abel.  How 
did  I  know  it?  Much  as  I  know’d  the  bird’s  names  in  the 
hedges  to  be  chaffinch,  sparrer,  thrush.  I  might  have  thought 
it  was  all  lies  together,  only  as  the  birds’  names  come  out  true, 
I  supposed  mine  did. 

“So  fur  as  I  could  find,  there  warn’t  a  soul  that  see  young 
Abel  Magwitch,  with  as  little  on  him  as  in  him,  but  wot  caught 
fright  at  him,  and  either  drove  him  off,  or  took  him  up.  I  was 
took  up,  took  up,  took  up,  to  that  extent  that  I  reg’larly  grow’d 
up  took  up. 

“  This  is  the  way  it  was,  that  when  I  was  a  ragged  little 
creetur  as  much  to  be  pitied  as  ever  I  see  (not  that  I  looked 
in  the  glass,  for  there  warn’t  many  insides  of  furnished  houses 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


49 


known  to  me),  I  got  the  name  of  being  hardened.  c  This  is  a 
terrible  hardened  one/  they  says  to  prison  wisitors,  picking  me 
out.  ‘May  be  said  to  live  in  jails,  this  boy.’  Then  they 
looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  them,  and  they  measured  my 
head,  some  on  ’em — they  had  better  a  measured  my  stom¬ 
ach — and  others  on  ’em  give  me  tracts  what  I  couldn’t  read, 
and  made  me  speeches  what  I  couldn’t  understand.  They 
always  went  on  agen  me  about  the  Devil.  But  what  the  devil 
was  I  to  do  ?  I  must  put  something  into  my  stomach,  mustn’t 


I? 


S  Wemmick  and  Miss  Skiffins  sat  side  by  side,  and  as  I 


1~\  sat  in  a  shadowy  corner,  I  observed  a  slow  and  gradual 
elongation  of  Mr.  Wemmick’ s  mouth,  powerfully  suggestive  of 
his  slowly  and  gradually  stealing  his  arm  round  Miss  Skiffins’s 
waist.  In  course  of  time  I  saw  his  hand  appear  on  the  other 
side  of  Miss  Skiffins ;  but  at  that  moment  Miss  Skiffins  neatly 
stopped  him  with  the  green  glove,  unwound  his  arm  again  as  if 
it  were  an  article  of  dress,  and  with  the  greatest  deliberation 
laid  it  on  the  table  before  her.  Miss  Skiffins’s  composure  while 
she  did  this  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  sights  I  have  ever 
seen,  and  if  I  could  have  thought  the  act  consistent  with  ab¬ 
straction  of  mind,  I  should  have  deemed  that  Miss  Skiffins 
performed  it  mechanically. 

By  and  by  I  noticed  Wemmick’ s  arm  beginning  to  disappear 
again,  and  gradually  fading  out  of  view.  Shortly  afterward,  his 
mouth  began  to  widen  again.  After  an  interval  of  suspense  on 
my  part  that  was  quite  enthralling  and  almost  painful,  I  saw  his 
hand  appear  on  the  other  side  of  Miss  Skiffins.  Instantly, 
Miss  Skiffins  stopped  it  with  the  neatness  of  a  placid  boxer, 
took  off  that  girdle  or  cestus  as  before,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
Taking  the  table  to  represent  the  path  of  virtue,  I  am  justified 
in  stating  that  during  the  whole  time  of  the  Aged’s  reading, 
Wemmick’ s  arm  was  straying  from  the  path  of  virtue  and  be¬ 
ing  recalled  to  it  by  Miss  Skiffins. 


3 


5o 


BEAUTIES  OE  DICKENS. 


u  T  T  ALLOA!”  said  Wemmick.  “Here’s  Miss  Skiffins  ! 

XX  Let’s  have  a  wedding.” 

That  discreet  damsel  was  attired  as  usual,  except  that  she 
was  now  engaged  in  substituting  for  her  green  kid  gloves  a 
pair  of  white.  .  The  Aged  was  likewise  occupied  in  preparing 
a  similar  sacrifice  for  the  altar  of  Hymen.  The  old  gentleman, 
however,  experienced  so  much  difficulty  in  getting  his  gloves 
on,  that  Wemmick  found  it  necessary  to  put  him  with  his  back 
against  a  pillar,  and  then  to  get  behind  the  pillar  himself  and 
pull  away  at  them,  while  I  for  my  part  held  the  old  gentleman 
round,  the  waist,  that  he  might  present  an  equal  and  safe  resist¬ 
ance.  By  dint  of  this  ingenious  scheme,  his  gloves  were  got  on 
to  perfection. 

The  clerk  and  clergyman  then  appearing,  we  were  ranged  in 
order  at  those  fatal  rails.  True  to  his  notion  of  seeming  to  do 
it  all  without  preparation,  I  heard  Wemmick  say  to  himself  as 
he  took  something  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket  before  the  ser¬ 
vice  began,  “  Halloa  !  Here’s  a  ring  !  ” 

I  acted  in  the  capacity  of  backer,  or  best-man,  to  the  bride¬ 
groom  ;  while  a  little  limp  pew-opener  in  a  soft  bonnet  like  a 
baby’s,  made  a  feint  of  being  the  bosom  friend  of  Miss  Skiffins. 
The  responsibility  of  giving  the  lady  away  devolved  upon  the 
Aged,  which  led  to  the  clergyman’s  being  unintentionally  scan¬ 
dalized,  and  it  happened  thus.  When  he  said,  “Who  giveth 
this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ?  ”  the  old  gentleman, 
not  in  the  least  knowing  what  point  of  the  ceremony  we  had 
arrived  at,  stood  most  amiably  beaming  at  the  ten  command¬ 
ments.  Upon  which,  the  clergyman  said  again,  “  Who  giveth 
this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ?  ”  The  old  gentleman 
being  still  in  a  state  of  most  estimable  unconsciousness,  the 
bridegroom  called  out  in  his  accustomed  voice,  “  Now  Aged  P. 
you  know;  who  giveth?”  To  which  the  Aged  replied  with 
great  briskness,  before  saying  that  he  gave,  “  All  right,  John, 
all  right,  my  boy  !  ”  And  the  clergyman  came  to  so  gloomy  a 
pause  upon  it,  that  I  had  doubts  for  the  moment  whether  we 

a 

should  get  completely  married  that  day. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


51 


FROM  OLIVER  TWIST. 

6  6  '\7rOUNG  boys  have  been  smothered  in  chimneys  before 
JL  now,”  said  another  gentleman. 

“That’s  acause  they  damped  the  straw  afore  they  lit  it  in  the 
chimbley,  to  make  ’em  come  down  again,”  said  Gamfield ; 
“that’s  all  smoke,  and  no  blaze  :  vereas  smoke  ain’t  o’  no  use 
at  all  in  makin’  a  boy  come  down ;  for  it  only  sinds  him  to 
sleep,  and  that’s  wot  he  likes.  Boys  is  wery  obstinit,  and  wery 
lazy,  gen’lm’n,  and  there’s  nothink  like  a  good  hot  blaze  to  make 
’em  come  down  vith  a  run ;  it’s  humane,  too,  gen’lm’n,  acause, 
even  if  they’ve  stuck  in  the  chimbley,  roastin’  their  feet  makes 
’em  struggle  to  hextricate  theirselves.” 

IN  pursuance  of  this  determination,  little  Oliver,  to  his  ex¬ 
cessive  astonishment,  was  released  from  bondage,  and  or¬ 
dered  to  put  himself  into  a  clean  shirt.  He  had  hardly  achieved 
this  very  unusual  gymnastic  performance,  when  Mr.  Bumble 
brought  him,  with  his  own  hands,  a  basin  of  gruel,  and  the  holi¬ 
day  allowance  of  two  ounces  and  a  quarter  of  bread.  At  this 
tremendous  sight,  Oliver  began  to  cry  very  piteously ;  thinking, 
not  unnaturally,  that  the  board  must  have  determined  to  kill 
him  for  some  useful  purpose,  or  they  never  would  have  begun 
to  fatten  him  up  in  that  way. 

“  Don’t  make  your  eyes  red,  Oliver,  but  eat  your  food,  and 
be  thankful,”  said  Mr.  Bumble,  in  a  tone  of  impressive  pom¬ 
posity.  “You’re  a-going  to  be  made  a  ’prentice  of,  Oliver.” 
“A  ’prentice,  sir  !  ”  said  the  child,  trembling. 

“Yes,  Oliver,”  said  Mr.  Bumble.  “The  kind  and  blessed 
gentlemen  which  is  so  many  parents  to  you,  Oliver,  when  you 
have  none  of  your  own,  are  a-going  to  ’prentice  you,  and  to  set 
you  up  in  life,  and  make  a  man  of  you,  although  the  expense 
to  the  parish  is  three  pound  ten  ! — three  pound  ten,  Oliver  ! — 
seventy  shillin’ s — one  hundred  and  forty  sixpences  ! — and  all 
for  a  naughty  orphan  which  nobody  can’t  love.” 


52 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


As  Mr.  Bumble  paused  to  take  breath,  after  delivering  this 
address  in  an  awful  voice,  the  tears  rolled  down  the  poor  child’s 
face,  and  he  sobbed  bitterly. 

“  Come,”  said  Mr.  Bumble,  somewhat  less  pompously,  for  it 
was  gratifying  to  his  feelings  to,  observe  the  effect  his  eloquence 
had  produced:  “come,  Oliver!  Wipe  your  eyes  with  the 
cuffs  of  your  jacket,  and  don’t  cry  into  your  gruel ;  that’s  a  very 
foolish  action,  Oliver.”  It  certainly  was,  for  there  was  quite 
enough  water  in  it  already. 


OU  did  well  yesterday,  my  dear,”  said  the  Jew. 


“  Beautiful !  Six  shillings  and  ninepence-halfpenny  on 


the  very  first  day  !  The  kinchin  lay  will  be  a  fortune  to  you.” 

“  Don’t  you  forget  to  add  three  pint-pots  and  a  milk-can,” 
said  Mr.  Bolter. 

“No,  no,  my  dear,”  replied  the  Jew.  “The  pint-pots  were 
great  strokes  of  genius  :  but  the  milk-can  was  a  perfect  master¬ 
piece.” 

“Pretty  well,  I  think,  for  a  beginner,”  remarked  Mr.  Bolter, 
complacently.  “The  pots  I  took  off  airy  railings,  and  the  milk- 
can  was  standing  by  itself  outside  a  public-house.  I  thought 
it  might  get  rusty  with  the  rain,  or  catch  cold,  yer  know.  Eh  ? 


Pla  !  ha  !  ha  !  ” 


OOK  here  !  do  you  see  this  !  Isn’t  it  a  most  wonderful 


^  and  extraordinary  thing  that  I  can’t  call  at  a  man’s  house 
but  I  find  a  piece  of  this  poor  surgeon’s  friend  on  the  staircase? 
I’ve  been  lamed  with  orange-peel  once,  and  I  know  orange- 
peel  will  be  my  death  at  last.  It  will,  sir ;  orange-peel  will  be 
my  death,  or  I’ll  be  content  to  eat  my  own  head,  sir !  ” 

This  was  the  handsome  offer  with  which  Mr.  Grimwig  backed 
and  confirmed  nearly  every  assertion  he  made ;  and  it  was  the 
more  singular  in  his  case,  because,  even  admitting,  for  the  sake 
of  argument,  the  possibility  of  scientific  improvements  being 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


S3 


ever  brought  to  that  pass  which  will  enable  a  gentleman  to  eat 
his  own  head,  in  the  event  of  his  being  so  disposed ;  Mr.  Grim- 
wig’s  head  was  such  a  particularly  large  one,  that  the  most  san¬ 
guine  man  alive  could  hardly  entertain  a  hope  of  being  able  to 
get  through  it  at  a  sitting- — to  put  entirely  out  of  the  question 
a  very  thick  coating  of  powder. 

“I’ll  eat  my  head,  sir,”  repeated  Mr.  Grimwig,  striking  his 
stick  upon  the  ground.  “Hallo;  what’s  that!”  looking  at 
Oliver,  and  retreating  a  pace  or  two. 

“  This  is  young  Oliver  Twist,  whom  we  were  speaking 
about,”  said  Mr.  Brownlow. 

Oliver  bowed. 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  that’s  the  boy  who  had  the  fever, 
I  hope  ?”  said  Mr.  Grimwig,  recoiling  a  little  more.  “  Wait  a 
minute  !  Don’t  speak  !  Stop — ”  continued  Mr.  Grimwig  ab¬ 
ruptly,  losing  all  dread  of  the  fever  in  his  triumph  at  the  dis¬ 
covery  :  “that’s  the  boy  who  had  the  orange!  If  that’s  not 
the  boy,  sir,  who  had  the  orange,  and  threw  this  bit  of  peel 
upon  the  staircase,  I’ll  eat  my  head,  and  his,  too.” 


FROM  OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 

MR.  WEGG,  not  to  name  myself  as  a  workman  without 
an  equal,  I’ve  gone  on  improving  myself  in  my  knowl¬ 
edge  of  Anatomy,  till  both  by  sight  and  by  name  I’m  perfect. 
Mr.  Wegg,  if  you  were  brought  here  loose  in  a  bag  to  be 
articulated,  I’d  name  your  smallest  bones  blindfold  equally  with 
your  largest,  as  fast  as  I  could  pick  ’em  out,  and  I’d  sort  ’em 
all,  and  sort  your  wertebrre,  in  a  manner  that  would  equally 
surprise  and  charm  you.” 

“Well,”  remarks  Silas  (though  not  quite  so  readily  as  last- 
time),  “  that  ain’t  a  state  of  things  to  be  low  about.  Not  for 
you  to  be  low  about,  leastways.” 


54 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“Mr.  Wegg,  I  know  it  ain’t;  Mr.  Wegg,  I  know  it  ain’t. 
But  it’s  the  heart  that  lowers  me,  it  is  the  heart !  Be  so  good 
as  to  take  and  read  that  card  out  loud.” 

Silas  receives  one  from  his  hand,  which  Venus  takes  from  a 
wonderful  litter  in  the  drawer,  and  putting  on  his  spectacles, 
reads  : 

“  1  Mr.  Venus,’  ” 

“Yes.  Goon.” 

“  1  Preserver  of  Animals  and  Birds,’  ” 

“Yes.  Goon.” 

“  ‘  Articulator  of  human  bones.’  ” 

“That’s  it,”  with  a  groan.  “That’s  it!  Mr.  Wegg,  I’m 
thirty-two,  and  a  bachelor.  Mr.  Wegg,  I  love  her.  Mr. 
Wegg,  she  is  worthy  of  being  loved  by  a  Potentate  !  ”  Here 
Silas  is  rather  alarmed  by  Mr.  Venus’s  springing  to  his  feet  in 
the  hurry  of  his  spirits,  and  haggardly  confronting  him  with  his 
hand  on  his  coat-collar;  but  Mr.  Venus,  begging  pardon,  sits 
down  again,  saying,  with  the  calmness  of  despair, 

“She  objects  to  the  business.” 

“  Does  she  know  the  profits  of  it  ?  ” 

“She  knows  the  profits  of  it,  but  she  don’t  appreciate  the  art 
of  it,  and  she  objects  to  it.  ‘  I  do  not  wish,’  she  writes  in  her 
own  handwriting,  ‘  to  regard  myself,  nor  yet  to  be  regarded,  in 
that  bony  light.’  ” 

U  1\  /I  BOFFIN  wishes  to  adopt  a  little  boy,  my  dear.” 

tVJL  Mrs.  Milvey  looking  rather  alarmed,  her  husband 
added  : 

“  An  orphan,  my  dear.” 

“  Oh  !”  said  Mrs.  Milvey,  reassured  for  her  own  little  boys. 

“And  I  was  thinking,  Margaretta,  that  perhaps 'old  Mrs. 
Goody’s  grandchild  might  answer  the  purpose.” 

“  Oh,  my  dear  Frank  !  I  do?it  think  that  would  do.” 

“  No.” 

“  Oh  no  /  ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


55 


The  smiling  Mrs.  Boffin,  feeling  it  incumbent  on  her  to  take 
part  in  the  conversation,  and  being  charmed  with  the  emphatic 
little  wife  and  her  ready  interest,  here  offered  her  acknowledg¬ 
ments  and  inquired  what  there  was  against  him  ? 

“  I  dorit  think,”  said  Mrs.  Milvey,  glancing  at  the  Reverend 
Frank,  “ — and  I  believe  my  husband  will  agree  with  me  when 
he  considers  it  again — that  you  could  possibly  keep  that  or¬ 
phan  clean  from  snuff.  Because  his  grandmother  takes  so 
many  ounces,  and  drops  it  over  him.” 

“  But  he  would  not  be  living  with  his  grandmother  then, 
Margaretta,”  said  Mr.  Milvey. 

“  No,  Frank,  but  it  would  be  impossible  to  keep  her  from 
Mrs.  Boffin’s  house  ;  and  the  more  there  was  to  eat  and  drink 
there,  the  oftener  she  would  go.  And  she  is  an  inconvenient 
woman.  I  hope  it’s  not  uncharitable  to  remember  that  last 
Christmas  eve  she  drank  eleven  cups  of  tea,  and  grumbled  all 
the  time.  And  she  is  not  a  grateful  woman,  Frank.  You  rec¬ 
ollect  her  addressing  a  crowd  outside  this  house,  about  her 
wrongs,  when,  one  night  after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  she  brought 
back  the  petticoat  of  new  flannel  that  had  been  given  her,  be¬ 
cause  it  was  too  short.” 

“That’s  true,”  said  Mr.  Milvey.  “I  don’t  think  that  would 
do.  Would  little  Harrison — ” 

“  Oh,  Frank  !  ”  remonstrated  his  emphatic  wife. 

“  He  has  no  grandmother,  my  dear.” 

“No,  but  I  dortt  think  Mrs.  Boffin  would  like  an  orphan 
who  squints  so  much." 

“That’s  true  again,”  said  Mr.  Milvey,  becoming  haggard 
with  perplexity.  “  If  a  little  girl  would  do — ” 

“  But,  my  dear  Frank,  Mrs.  Boffin  wants  a  boy.” 

“  That’s  true  again,”  said  Mr.  Milvey.  “  Tom  Bocker  is  a  • 
nice  boy”  (thoughtfully). 

“  But  I  doubt ,  Frank,”  Mrs.  Milvey  hinted,  after  a  little  hes¬ 
itation,  “  if  Mrs.  Boffin  wants  an  orphan  quite  nineteen,  who 
drives  a  cart  and  waters  the  roads.” 

Mr.  Milvey  referred  the  point  to  Mrs.  Boffin  in  a  look ;  on 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


56 

that  smiling  lady’s  shaking  her  black-velvet  bonnet  and  bows, 
he  remarked,  in  lower  spirits,  “  that’s  true  again.” 

“  I  am  sure,”  said  Mrs.  Boffin,  concerned  at  giving  so  much 
trouble,  “that  if  I  had  known  you  would  have  taken  so  much 
pains,  sir — and  you  too,  ma’am — I  don’t  think  I  would  have 
come.” 

1\  /T  Y  respected  father,  let  me  shorten  the  dutiful  tautol- 

XV  JL  ogy  by  substituting  in  future  M.  R.  F.,  which  sounds 
military,  and  rather  like  the  Duke  of  Wellington.” 

“  What  an  absurd  fellow  you  are,  Eugene  !  ” 

“  Not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  M.  R.  F.,  having  always  in  the 
clearest  manner  provided  (as  he  calls  it)  for  his  children  by 
pre-arranging  from  the  hour  of  the  birth  of  each,  and  some¬ 
times  from  an  earlier  period,  what  the  devoted  little  victim’s 
calling  and  course  in  life  should  be,  M.  R.  F.  pre-arranged  for 
myself  that  I  was  to  be  the  barrister  I  am  (with  the  slight  ad¬ 
dition  of  an  enormous  practice,  which  has  not  accrued),  and 
also  the  married  man  I  am  not.” 

“  The  first  you  have  often  told  me.” 

“  The  first  I  have  often  told  you.  Considering  myself  suffici¬ 
ently  incongruous  on  my  legal  eminence,  I  have  until  now  sup¬ 
pressed  my  domestic  destiny.  You  know  M.  R.  F.,  but  not 
as  well  as  I  do.  If  you  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do,  he  would 
amuse  you.” 

“  Filially  spoken,  Eugene  !  ” 

“Perfectly  so,  believe  me;  and  with  every  sentiment  of 
affectionate  deference  towards  M.  R.  F.  But  if  he  amuses  me, 
I  can’t  help  it.  When  my  eldest  brother  was  born,  of  course 
the  rest  of  us  knew  (I  mean  the  rest  of  us  would  have  known, 
if  we  had  been  in  existence)  that  he  was  heir  to  the  Family 
Embarrassments — we  call  it  before  company  the  Family  Es¬ 
tate.  But  when  my  second  brother  was  going  to  be  born  by 
and  by,  ‘this,’  says  M.  R.  F.,  ‘is  a  little  pillar  of  the  church.’ 
Was  born,  and  became  a  pillar  of  the  church  :  a  very  shaky 


'PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


57 


one.  My  third  brother  appeared,  considerably  in  advance  of 
his  engagement  to  my  mother ;  but  M.  R.  F.,  not  at  all  put 
out  by  surprise,  instantly  -declared  him  a  Circumnavigator. 
Was  pitchforked  into  the  Navy,  but  has  not  circumnavigated. 
I  announced  myself,  and  was  disposed  of  with  the  highly  satis¬ 
factory  results  embodied  before  you.  When  my  younger 
brother  was  half  an  hour  old,  it  was  settled  by  M.  R.  F.  that 
he  should  have  a  mechanical  genius.  And  so  on.  Therefore 
I  say  that  M.  R.  F.  amuses  me.” 


MISS  LAVINIA  was  extremely  affable  to  Mr.  Sampson 
on  this  special  occasion,  and  took  the  opportunity 
of  informing  her  sister  why. 

“  It  was  not  worth  troubling  you  about,  Bella,  when  you 
were  in  a  sphere  so  far  removed  from  your  family  as  to  make 
it  a  matter  in  which  you  could  be  expected  to  take  very  little 
interest,”  said  Lavinia,  with  a  toss  of  her  chin  :  “  but  George 
Sampson  is  paying  his  addresses  to  me.” 

Bella  was  glad  to  hear  it.  Mr.  Sampson  became  thought¬ 
fully  red,  and  felt  called  upon  to  encircle  Miss  Lavinia’ s  waist 
with  his  arm  ;  but,  encountering  a  large  pin  in  the  young  lady’s 
belt,  sacrificed  a  finger,  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation,  and  at¬ 
tracted  the  lightning  of  Mrs.  Wilfer’s  glare. 


THEREFORE,  the  police  sent  for  something  to  cover  it, 
and  it  was  covered  and  borne  through  the  streets,  the  peo¬ 
ple  falling  away.  After  it  went  the  dolls’  dressmaker,  hiding  her 
Jface  in  the  Jewish  skirts,  and  clinging  to  them  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  plied  her  stick.  It  was  carried  home, 
and,  by  reason  that  the  staircase  was  very  narrow,  it  was  put  down 
in  the  parlor — the  little  working-bench  being  set  aside  to  make 
room  for  it — and  there,  in  the  midst  of  the  dolls  with  no  spec¬ 
ulation  in  their  eyes,  lay  Mr.  Dolls  with  no  speculation  in  his. 
3* 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


53 


T  WISH  to  goodness,  ma,”  said  Lavvy,  throwing  herself 

X  back  among  the  cushions,  with  her  arms  crossed,  “that 
you’d  loll  a  little.” 

“  How  !  ”  repeated  Mrs.  Wilfer.  “  Loll  1  ” 

“  Yes,  ma.” 

“  I  hope,”  said  the  impressive  lady,  “  I  am  incapable  of  it.” 

“  I  am  sure  you  look  so,  ma.  But  why  one  should  go  out 
to  dine  with  one’s  own  daughter  or  sister,  as  if  one’s  under¬ 
petticoat  was  a  backboard,  I  do  not  understand.” 

“Neither  do  I  understand,”  retorted  Mrs.  Wilfer,  with  deep 
scorn,  “  how  a  young  lady  can  mention  the  garment  in  the 
name  of  which  you  have  indulged.  I  blush  for  you.” 

“Thank  you,  ma,”  said  Lavvy,  yawning,  “but  I  can  do  it 
for  myself,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  when  there’s  any  occasion.” 

Here  Mr.  Sampson,  with  the  view  of  establishing  harmony, 
which  he  never  under  any  circumstances  succeeded  in  doing, 
said,  with  an  agreeable  smile  :  “  After  all,  you  know,  ma’am, 
we  know  it’s  there.”  And  immediately  felt  that  he  had  com¬ 
mitted  himself. 

“We  know  it’s  there  !”  said  Mrs.  Wilfer,  glaring. 

“Really,  George,”  remonstrated  Miss  Lavinia,  “I  mu*st  say 
that  I  don’t  understand  your  allusions,  and  that  I  think  you 
might  be  more  delicate  and  less  personal.” 

“Go  it ! ”  cried  Mr.  Sampson,  becoming,  on  the  shortest 
notice,  a  prey  to  despair.  “  Oh  yes  !  Go  it,  Miss  Lavinia 
Wilfer !  ” 

“  What  you  may  mean,  George  Sampson,  by  your  omnibus¬ 
driving  expressions,  I  cannot  pretend  to  imagine.  Neither,” 
said  Miss  Lavinia,  “Mr.  George  Sampson,  do  I  wish  to 
imagine.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  in  my  own  heart  that  I 
am  not  going  to — ”  having  imprudently  got  into  a  sentence' 
without  providing  a  way  out  of  it,  Miss  Lavinia  was  constrained 
to  close  with  “going  to  go  it.”  A  weak  conclusion  which, 
however,  derived  some  appearance  of  strength  from  disdain. 

Oh  yes!”  cried  Mr.  Sampson,  with  bitterness.  “Thus  it 
ever  is.  I  never — ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


59 


“  If  you  mean  to  say,”  Miss  Lavvy  cut  him  short,  “  that  you 
never  brought  up  a  young  gazelle,  you  may  save  yourself  the 
trouble,  because  nobody  in  this  carriage  supposes  that  you  ever 
did.  We  know  you  better.” 

^/^OME  in,  sir,”  said  Miss  Wren,  who  was  working  at  her 
bench.  <c  And  who  may  you  be  ?  ” 

Mr.  Sloppy  introduced  himself  by  name  and  buttons. 

“Oh,  indeed!”  cried  Jenny ✓  “Ah!  I  have  been  looking 
forward  to  knowing  you.  I  heard  of  your  distinguishing 
yourself.” 

“  Did  you,  miss  ?  ”  grinned  Sloppy.  “  I  am  sure  I  am  glad 
to  hear  it,  but  I  don’t  know  how.” 

“  Pitching  somebody  into  a  mud-cart,”  said  Miss  Wren. 

“Oh!  That  way!”  cried  Sloppy.  “Yes,  miss.”  And 
threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

“Bless  us!”  exclaimed  Miss  Wren  with  a  start.  “Don’t 
open  your  mouth  as  widens  that,  young  man,  or  it’ll  catch  so, 
and  not  shut- again  some  day.” 

Mr.  Sloppy  opened  it,  if  possible,  wider,  and  kept  it  open 
until  his  laugh  was  out. 


FROM  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 

\ 

u  T  T  OW  old  is  that  horse,  my  friend  ?  ”  inquired  Mr.  Pick- 
F1  wick,  rubbing  his  nose  with  the  shilling  he  had  re¬ 
served  for  the  fare. 

“  Forty-two,”  replied  the  driver,  eying  him  askant. 

“What !  ”  ejaculated  Mr.  Pickwick,  laying  his  hand  upon  his 
note-book.  The  driver  reiterated  his  former  statement.  Mr. 
Pickwick  looked  very  hard  at  the  man’s  face,  but  his  features 
were  immovable,  so  he  noted  down  the  fact  forthwith. 


6o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  And  how  long  do  you  keep  him  out  at  a  time  ?  ”  inquired 
Mr.  Pickwick,  searching  for  further  information. 

“Two  or  three  veeks,”  replied  the  man. 

“  Weeks  !  ”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  in  astonishment — and  out 
came  the  note-book  again. 

“  He  lives  at  Pentonwil  when  he’s  at  home,”  observed  the 
driver,  coolly,  “  but  we  seldom  takes  him  home,  on  account  of 
his  veakness.” 

“On  account  of  his  weakness  !”  reiterated  the  perplexed 
Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  He  always  falls  down  when  he’s  took  out  of  the  cab,”  con¬ 
tinued  the  driver,  “  but  when  he’s  in  it,  we  bears  him  up  werry 
tight,  and  takes  him  in  werry  short,  so  as  he  can’t  werry  well 
fall  down  ;  and  we  got  a  pair  o’  precious  large  wheels  on,  so 
ven  he  does  move,  they  run  after  him,  and  he  must  go  on — he 
can’t  help  it.” 

64  A  H  !  you  should  keep  dogs — fine  animals — -sagacious 

JTjl  creatures — dog  of  my  own  once — Pointer — surprising 
instinct — out  shooting  one  day — entering  inclosure — whistled 
— dog  stopped — whistled  again — Ponto — no  go  ;  stock  still — 
called  him — Ponto,  Ponto — wouldn’t  move — dog  transfixed — 
staring  at  a  board — looked  up,  saw  an  inscription — ‘  Game- 
keeper  has  orders  to  shoot  all  dogs  found  in  this  inclosure  ’ — - 
wouldn’t  pass  it — wonderful  dog — valuable  dog  that — very.” 

u  T  S  the  lady  in  England  now,  sir  ?  ”  inquired  Mr.  Tupman, 

X  on  whom  the  description  of  her  charms  had  produced  a 
powerful  impression. 

“Dead,  sir — dead,”  said  the  stranger,  applying  to  his  right 
eye  the  brief  remnant  of  a  very  old  cambric  handkerchief. 
“  Never  recovered  the  stomach  pump — undermined  constitu¬ 
tion — fell  a  victim.” 

“  And  her  father  ?  ”  inquired  the  poetic  Snodgrass. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


6 1 


“  Remorse  and  misery,”  replied  the  stranger.  “  Sudden  dis¬ 
appearance — talk  of  the  whole  city — search  made  everywhere 
— without  success — public  fountain  in  the  great  square  sud¬ 
denly  ceased  playing — weeks  elapsed — still  a  stoppage — work¬ 


men  employed  to  clean  it — water  drawn  off — father-in-law  dis¬ 


covered  sticking  head  first  in  the  main  pipe,  with  a  full  confes¬ 
sion  in  his  right  boot — took  him  out,  and  the  fountain  played 
away  again,  as  well  as  ever.” 


ON’T  be  frightened,”  said  the  host. 

“  What’s  the  matter  ?  ”  screamed  the  ladies. 


“Mr.  Tupman  has  met  with  a  little  accident;  that’s  all.” 

The  spinster  aunt  uttered  a  piercing  scream,  burst  into  an 
hysteric  laugh,  and  fell  backwards  in  the  arms  of  her  nieces. 

“  Throw  some  cold  water  over  her,”  said  the  old  gentleman. 

“  No,  no,”  murmured  the  spinster  aunt ;  “  I  am  better  now. 
Bella,  Emily — a  surgeon  !  Is  he  wounded?  Is  he  dead  ?  Is 
he — ha,  ha,  ha  !  ”  Here  the  spinster  aunt  burst  into  fit  number 
two  of  hysteric  laughter,  interspersed  with  screams. 

“  Calm  yourself,”  said  Mr.  Tupman,  affected  almost  to  tears 
by  this  expression  of  sympathy  with  his  sufferings.  “  Dear, 
dear  madam,  calm  yourself.” 

“  It  is  his  voice  !  ”  exclaimed  the  spinster  aunt ;  and  strong 
symptoms  of  fit  number  three  developed  themselves  forthwith. 

“  Do  not  agitate  yourself,  I  entreat  you,  dearest  madam,” 
said  Mr.  Tupman  soothingly.  “I  am  very  little  hurt,  I  assure 


Then  you  are  not  dead !  ”  ejaculated  the  hysterical  lady. 


“  Oh,  say  you  are  not  dead  !  ” 

“  Don’t  be  a  fool,  Rachael,”  interposed  Mr.  Wardle,  rather  . 
more  roughly  than  was  quite  consistent  with  the  poetic  nature 


of  the  scene.  “  What  the  devil’s  the  use  of  his  saying  he  isn’t 


dead  ?  ” 


“No,  no,  I  am  not,”  said  Mr.  Tupman.  “I  require  no 
assistance  but  yours.  Let  me  lean  on  your  arm.”  He  added, 


62 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


in  a  whisper,  “  Oh,  Miss  Rachael !  ”  The  agitated  female 
advanced,  and  offered  her  arm.  They  turned  into  the  break¬ 
fast  parlor.  Mr.  Tracy  Tupman  gently  pressed  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  sank  upon  the  sofa. 

“  Are  you  faint  ?  ”  inquired  the  anxious  Rachael. 

“  No,”  said  Mr.  Tupman.  “  It  is  nothing.  I  shall  be  better 
presently.”  He  closed  his  eyes. 

“  He  sleeps,”  murmured  the  spinster  aunt.  (His  organs  of 
vision  had  been  closed  nearly  twenty  seconds.)  “Dear — 
dear — Mr.  Tupman  !  ” 

Mr.  Tupman  jumped  up — “  Oh,  say  those  words  again !  ” 
he  exclaimed. 

The  lady  started.  “  Surely  you  did  not  hear  them  !  ”  she 
said  bashfully. 

“Oh,  yes  I  did!”  replied  Mr.  Tupman:  “repeat  them;  if 
you  would  have  me  recover,  repeat  them.” 

HIS  constant  succession  of  glasses  produced  considerable 


JL  effect  upon  Mr.  Pickwick  :  his  countenance  beamed  with 
the  most  sunny  smiles,  laughter  played  around  his  lips,  and  good- 
humored  merriment  twinkled  in  his  eye.  Yielding  by  degrees 
to  the  influence  of  the  exciting  liquid,  rendered  more  so  by  the 
heat,  Mr.  Pickwick  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  recollect  a 
song  which  he  had  heard  in  his  infancy,  and  the  attempt  prov¬ 
ing  abortive,  sought  to  stimulate  his  memory  with  more  glasses 
of  punch,  which  appeared  to  have  quite  a  contrary  effect ;  for, 
from  forgetting  the  words  of  the  song,  he  began  to  forget  how 
to  articulate  any  words  at  all  ;  and  finally,  after  rising  to  his 
legs  to  address  the  company  in  an  eloquent  speech,  he  fell 
into  the  barrow  and  fast  asleep,  simultaneously. 


EG  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Wilkins,  “but — ” 

“  But  what  ?  Eh  ?  ”  roared  the  Captain ;  and  follow¬ 


ing  the  timid  glance  of  Wilkins,  his  eyes  encountered  the  wheel¬ 
barrow  and  Mr.  Pickwick. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


63 


“  Who  are  you,  you  rascal  ?  ”  said  the  Captain,  administer¬ 
ing  several  pokes  to  Mr.  Pickwick’s  body  with  the  thick  stick. 
“  What’s  your  name  ?  ” 

“  Cold  punch,”  murmured  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  he  sunk  to  sleep 
again. 

“  What  ?  ”  demanded  Captain  Boldwig. 

No  reply. 

“What  did  he  say  his  name  was  ?”  asked  the  Captain. 

“Punch,  I  think,  sir,”  replied  Wilkins. 

“  That’s  his  impudence,  that’s  his  confounded  impudence,” 
said  Captain  Boldwig.  “  He’s  only  feigning  to  be  asleep  now,” 
said  the  Captain,  in  a  high  passion.  “He’s  drunk;  he’s  a 
drunken  plebeian.  Wheel  him  away,  Wilkins ;  wheel  him  away 
directly.” 

“Where  shall  I  wheel  him  to,  sir?”  inquired  Wilkins,  with 
great  timidity. 

“  Wheel  him  to  the  Devil,  *  replied  Captain  Boldwig. 

“  Very  well,  sir,”  said  Wilkins. 

“  Stay,”  said  the  Captain. 

Wilkins  stopped  accordingly. 

“  Wheel  him,”  said  the  Captain,  “  wheel  him  to  the  pound  ; 
and  let  us  see  whether  he  calls  himself  Punch  when  he  comes 
to  himself.  Hie  shall  not  bully  me,  he  shall  not  bully  me. 
Wheel  him  away.” 

Away  Mr.  Pickwick  was  wheeled,  in  compliance  with  this 
imperious  mandate;  and  the  great  Captain  Boldwig,  swelling 
with  indignation,  proceeded  on  his  walk. 

Inexpressible  was  the  astonishment  of  the  little  party  when 
they  returned,  to  find  that  Mr.  Pickwick  had  disappeared,  and 
taken  the  wheelbarrow  with  him.  It  was  the  most  mysterious 
and  unaccountable  thing  that  was  ever  heard  of.  For  a  lame 
man  to  have  got  upon  his  legs  without  any  previous  notice,  and 
walked  off,  would  have  been  most  extraordinary ;  but  when  it 
came  to  his  wheeling  a  heavy  barrow  before  him,  by  way  of 
amusement,  it  grew  positively  miraculous. 


64- 


beauties  OF  DICKENS. 


66  T  AM  very  sorry  to  betray  my  master,  sir,”  said  Job  Trot- 

JL  ter,  applying  to  his  eyes  a  pink-checked  pocket-hand¬ 
kerchief  about  six  inches  square. 

“  The  feeling  does  you  a  great  deal  of  honor,”  replied  Mr. 
Pickwick  ;  “  but  it  is  your  duty,  nevertheless.” 

“I  know  it  is  my  duty,  sir,”  replied  Job,  with  great  emotion. 
“We  should  all  try  to  discharge  our  duty,  sir,  and  I  humbly' 
endeavor  to  discharge  mine,  sir ;  but  it  is  a  hard  trial  to  betray 
a  master,  sir,  whose  clothes  you  wear,  and  whose  bread  you 
eat,  even  though  he  is  a  scoundrel,  sir.” 

“You  are  a  very  good  fellow,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  much  af¬ 
fected,  “  an  honest  fellow.” 

“  Come,  come,”  interposed  Sam,  who  had  witnessed  Mr. 
Trotter’s  tears  with  considerable  impatience,  “blow  this  here 
water-cart  bis’ness.  It  won’t  do  no  good,  this  won’t.” 

“Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  reproachfully,  “I  am  sorry  to 
find  that  you  have  so  little  respect  for  this  young  man’s  feel¬ 
ings.” 

“  His  feelin’s  is  all  wery  well,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller ;  “and 
as  they’re  so  wery  fine,  and  it’s  a  pity  he  should  lose  ’em,  I 
think  he’d  better  keep  ’em  in  his  own  buzzurn,  than  let  ’em 
ewaporate  in  hot  water,  ’specially  as  they  do  no  good.  Tears 
never  yet  wound  up  a  clock,  or  worked  a  steam  ingen’.  The 
next  time  you  go  out  to  a  smoking  party,  young  fellow,  fill 
your  pipe  with  that  ’ere  reflection  ;  and  for  the  present  just  put 
that  bit  of  pink  gingham  into  your  pocket.  ’Tan’t  so  hand¬ 
some  that  you  need  keep  waving  it  about,  as  if  you  was  a  tight¬ 
rope  dancer.” 


OW,  the  cook  no  sooner  heard  the  concluding  words  of 
this  desperate  challenge,  and  saw  Mr.  Muzzle  about  to 
put  it  into  execution,  than  she  uttered  a  loud  and  piercing 
shriek,  and  rushed  on  Mr.  Job  Trotter,  who  rose  from  his  chair 
on  the  instant,  tore  and  buffeted  his  large  flat  face,  with  an 
energy  peculiar  to  excited  females,  and  twining  her  hands  in 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


65 


his  long  black  hair,  tore  therefrom  about  enough  to  make  five 
or  six  dozen  of  the  very  largest- sized  mourning-rings.  Having 
accomplished  this  feat  with  all  the  ardor  which  her  devoted  love 
for  Mr.  Muzzle  inspired,  she  staggered  back ;  and  being  a  lady 
of  very  excitable  and  delicate  feelings,  she  instantly  fell  under 
the  dresser,  and  fainted  away. 

^TT  is  the  best  idea,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  to  himself,  smiling 

X  till  he  almost  cracked  the  nightcap  strings  :  “it  is  the  best 
idea,  my  losing  myself  in  this  place,  and  wandering  about  those 
staircases,  that  I  ever  heard  of.  Droll,  droll,  very  droll.” 
Here  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled  again,  a  broader  smile  than  before, 
and  was  about  to  continue  the  process  of  undressing,  in  the 
best  possible  humor,  when  he  was  suddenly  stopped  by  a  most 
unexpected  interruption  ;  to  wit,  the  entrance  into  the  room 
of  some  person  with  a  candle,  who,  after  locking  the  door,  ad¬ 
vanced  to  the  dressing-table,  and  set  down  the  light  upon  it. 

The  smile  that  played  on  Mr.  Pickwick’s  features  was  instan¬ 
taneously  lost  in  a  look  of  the  most  unbounded  and  wonder- 
stricken  surprise.  The  person,  whoever  it  was,  had  come  in 
so  suddenly  and  with  so  little  noise,  that  Mr.  Pickwick  had 
had  no  time  to  call  out,  or  oppose  their  entrance.  Who  could 
it  be  ?  A  robber  ?  Some  evil-minded  person  who  had  seen 
him  come  upstairs  with  a  handsome  watch  in  his  hand,  per¬ 
haps.  What  was  he  to  do  ? 

The  only  way  in  which  Mr.  Pickwick  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  his  mysterious  visitor  with  the  least  danger  of  being  seen  him¬ 
self,  was  by  creeping  on  to  the  bed,  and  peeping  out  from  be¬ 
tween  the  curtains  on  the  opposite  side.  To  this  manoeuvre 
he  accordingly  resorted.  Keeping  the  curtains  carefully  closed 
with  his  hand,  so  that  nothing  more  of  him  could  be  seen  than 
his  face  and  nightcap,  and  putting  on  his  spectacles,  he  mus¬ 
tered  up  courage  and  looked  out. 

Mr.  Pickwick  almost  fainted  with  horror  and  dismay.  Stand¬ 
ing  before  the  dressing-glass  was  a  middle-aged  lady,  in  yellow 


66 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


curl-papers,  busily  engaged  in  brushing  what  ladies  call  their 
“  back-hair.”  However  the  unconscious  middle-aged  lady 
came  into  that  room,  it  was  quite  clear  that  she  contemplated 
remaining  there  for  the  night ;  for  she  had  brought  a  rush-light 
and  shade  with  her,  which,  with  praiseworthy  precaution  against 
fire,  she  had  stationed  in  a  basin  on  the  floor,  where  it  was 
glimmering  away,  like  a  gigantic  light-house  in  a  particularly 
small  piece  of  water. 

“Bless  my  soul/’  thought  Mr.  Pickwick,  “what  a  dreadful 
thing  !  ” 

“  Hem  !  ”  said  the  lady  ;  and  in  went  Mr.  Pickwick’s  head 
with  automaton-like  rapidity. 

“  I  never  met  with  anything  so  awful  as  this,”  thought  poor 
Mr.  Pickwick,  the  cold  perspiration  starting  in  drops  upon  his 
nightcap.  “  Never.  This  is  fearful.” 

It  was  quite  impossible  to  resist  the  urgent  desire  to  see  what 
was  going  forward.  So  out  went  Mr.  Pickwick’s  head  again. 
The  prospect  was  worse  than  before.  The  middle-aged  lady 
had  finished  arranging  her  hair  :  had  carefully  enveloped  it  in  a 
muslin  night-cap  with  a  small  plaited  border ;  and  was  gazing 
pensively  on  the  fire. 

“  This  matter  is  growing  alarming,”  reasoned  Mr.  Pickwick 
with  himself.  “  I  can’t  allow  things  to  go  on  in  this  way.  By 
the  self-possessicn  of  that  lady  it  is  clear  to  me  that  I  must 
have  come  into  the  wrong  room.  If  1  call  out  she’ll  alarm  the 
house  ;  but  if  I  remain  here  the  consequences  will  still  be  more 
frightful.” 

Mr.  Pickwick,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  say,  was  one  of  the 
most  modest  and  delicate-minded  of  mortals.  The  very  idea 
of  exhibiting  his  nightcap  to  a  lady  overpowered  him,  but  he 
had  tied  those  confounded  strings  in  a  knot,  and  do  what  he 
would,  he  couldn’t  get  it  off.  The  disclosure  must  be  made. 
There  was  only  one  other  way  of  doing  it.  He  shrunk  behind 
the  curtains,  and  called  out  very  loudly  : 

“  Ha — hum  !  ” 

That  the  lady  started  at  this  unexpected  sound,  was  evident 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


6  7 


by  her  falling  up  against  the  rush-light  shade ;  that  she  per¬ 
suaded  herself  it  must  have  been  the  effect  of  imagination,  was 
equally  clear,  for  when  Mr.  Pickwick,  under  the  impression 
that  she  had  fainted  away  stone-dead  from  fright,  ventured  to 
peep  out  again,  she  wTas  gazing  pensively  on  the  fire  as  before. 

“  Most  extraordinary  female  this,”  thought  Mr.  Pickwick, 
popping  in  again.  “Ha — hum  !  ” 

These  last  sounds,  so  like  those  in  which,  as  legends  inform 
us,  the  ferocious  giant  Blunderbore  was  in  the  habit  of  express¬ 
ing  his  opinion  that  it  was  time  to  lay  the  cloth,  were  too  dis¬ 
tinctly  audible  to  be  again  mistaken  for  the  workings  of  fancy. 

“Gracious  Heaven!”  said  the  middle-aged  lady,  “what  is 
that  ? 

“  It’s — it’s — only  a  gentleman,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick 
from  behind  the  curtains. 

“  A  gentleman  !  ”  said  the  lady  with  a  terrific  scream. 

“  It’s  all  over !  ”  thought  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  A  strange  man  !  ”  shrieked  the  lady.  Another  instant  and 
the  house  would  be  alarmed.  Her  garments  rustled  as  she 
rushed  towards  the  door. 

“  Ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  thrusting  out  his  head,  in  the 
extremity  of  his  desperation,  “  ma’am  !  ” 

Now,  although  Mr.  Pickwick  was  not  actuated  by  any  defi¬ 
nite  object  in  putting  out  his  head,  it  was  instantaneously  pro¬ 
ductive  of  a  good  effect.  The  lady,  as  we  have  already  stated, 
was  near  the  door.  She  must  pass  it  to  reach  the  staircase, 
and  she  would  most  undoubtedly  have  done  so  by  this  time, 
had  not  the  sudden  apparition  of  Mr.  Pickwick’s  nightcap 
driven  her  back  into  the  remotest  corner  of  the  apartment, 
where  she  stood  staring  wildly  at  Mr.  Pickwick,  while  Mr. 
Pickwick  in  his  turn  stared  wildly  at  her. 

“  Wretch,”  said  the  lady,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands, 
“what  do  you  want  here  ?  ” 

“Nothing,  ma’am;  nothing,  whatever,  ma’am,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick  earnestly. 

“  Nothing  !  ”  said  the  lady,  looking  up. 


68 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Nothing,  ma’am,  upon  my  honor,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
nodding  his  head  so  energetically  that  the  tassel  of  his  night¬ 
cap  danced  again.  “  I  am  almost  ready  to  sink,  ma’am,  be¬ 
neath  the  confusion  of  addressing  a  lady  in  my  night-cap  [here 
the  lady  hastily  snatched  off  hers],  but  I  can’t  get  it  off,  ma’am 
[here  Mr.  Pickwick  gave  it  a  tremendous  tug,  in  proof  of  the 
statement].  It  is  evident  to  me,  ma’am,  now,  that  I  have  mis¬ 
taken  this  bedroom  for  my  own.  I  had  not  been  here  live 
minutes,  ma’am,  when  you  suddenly  entered  it.” 

“  If  this  improbable  story  be  really  true,  sir,”  said  the  lady, 
sobbing  violently,  “you  will  leave  it  instantly.” 

“  I  will,  ma’am,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,”  replied  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“  Instantly,  sir,”  said  the  lady. 

“  Certainly,  ma’am,”  interposed  Mr.  Pickwick  very  quickly. 
“Certainly,  ma’am.  I — I — am  very  sorry,  ma’am,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  making  his  appearance  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  “  to 
have  been  the  innocent  occasion  of  this  alarm  and  emotion ; 
deeply  sorry,  ma’am.” 

The  lady  pointed  to  the  door.  One  excellent  quality  of  Mr. 
Pickwick’s  character  was  beautifully  displayed  at  this  moment, 
under  the  most  trying  circumstances.  Although  he  had  hastily 
put  on  his  hat  over  his  nightcap,  after  the  manner  of  the  old 
patrol ;  although  he  carried  his  shoes  and  gaiters  in  his  hand, 
and  his  coat  and  waistcoat  over  his  arm ;  nothing  could  subdue 
his  native  politeness. 

“  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  bow¬ 
ing  very  low. 

“  If  you  are,  sir,  you  will  at  once  leave  the  room,”  said  the 
lady. 

“  Immediately,  ma’am ;  this  instant,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick,  opening  the  door,  and  dropping  both  his  shoes  with  a 
crash  in  so  doing. 

“  I  trust,  ma’am,”  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick,  gathering  up  his 
shoes,  and  turning  round  to  bow  again  :  “  I  trust,  ma’am,  that 
my  unblemished  character,  and  the  devoted  respect  I  enter- 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


6  9 


tain  for  your  sex,  will  plead  as  some  slight  excuse  for  this  ” — 
But  before  Mr.  Pickwick  could  conclude  the  sentence  the  lady 
had  thrust  him  into  the  passage,  and  locked  and  bolted  the 
door  behind  him. 

“WERRY  nice  pork-shop  that  ’ere,  sir.” 

V  V  “Yes,  it  seems  so,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Celebrated  Sassage  factory,”  said  Sam. 

“Is  it?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Is  it  !  ”  reiterated  Sam  with  some  indignation  ;  “  I  should 
rayther  think  it  was.  Why,  sir,  bless  your  innocent  eyebrows, 
that’s  where  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  a  ’spectable 
tradesman  took  place  four  year  ago.” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  he  was  burked,  Sam?”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  looking  hastily  round. 

“  No,  I  don’t  indeed,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  “  I  wish  I  did  ; 
far  worse  than  that.  He  was  the  master  o’  that  ’ere  shop,  sir,  and 
the  inwenter  o’  the  patent-never-leavin’-of  sassage  steam  ingine, 
as  ud  swaller  up  a  pavin’  stone  if  you  put  it  too  near,  and  grind 
it  into  sassages  as  easy  as  if  it  was  a  tender  young  babby. 
Werry  proud  o’  that  machine  he  was,  as  it  was  nat’ral  he  should 
be,  and  he’d  stand  down  in  the  celler  a-lookin’  at  it  wen  it  was 
in  full  play,  till  he  got  quite  melancholy  with  joy.  A  werry 
happy  man  he'd  ha’  been,  sir,  in  the  procession  o’  that  ’ere  in¬ 
gine  and  two  more  lovely  hinfants  besides,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for 
his  wife,  who  was  a  most  ow-dacious  wixin.  She  was  always 
follerin’  him  about,  and  dinnin’  in  his  ears,  ’till  at  last  he 
couldn’t  stand  it  no  longer.  ‘  I’ll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  dear,’ 
he  says  one  day ;  ‘  if  you  persewere  in  this  here  sort  of  amuse¬ 
ment,’  he  says,  ‘I’m  blessed  if  I  don’t  go  away  to  ’Merriker ; 
and  that’s  all  about  it.’  c  You’re  a  idle  willin,’  says  she,  ‘  and  I 
wish  the  ’Merrikins  joy  of  their  bargain.’  Alter  wich  she  keeps 
on  abusin’  of  him  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  runs  into  the  little 
parlor  behind  the  shop,  sets  to  a  screamin’,  says  he’ll  be  the 
death  on  her,  and  falls  in  a  fit,  which  lasts  for  three  good  hours 
— one  o’  them  fits  which  is  all  screamin’  and  kickin’.  Well, 


7o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


next  mornin’,  the  husband  was  missin’.  He  hadn’t  taken  noth¬ 
in’  from  the  till — hadn’t  even  put  on  his  great-coat — so  it  was 
quite  clear  he  warn’t  gone  to  Merriker.  Didn’t  come  back 
next  day  ;  didn’t  come  back  next  week  ;  missis  had  bill  printed, 
sayin’  that,  if  he’d  come  back,  he  should  be  forgiven  everythin’ 
(which  was  very  liberal,  seein’  that  he  hadn’t  done  nothin’  at 
all) ;  the  canals  was  dragged,  and  for  two  months  artervards, 
wenever  a  body  turned  up,  it  was  carried,  as  a  reg’lar  thing, 
straight  off  to  the  sassage  shop.  Hows’ ever,  none  on  ’em  an¬ 
swered  ;  so  they  gave  out  that  he’d  run  away,  and  she  kept  on 
the  bis’ ness.  One  Saturday  night,  a  little  thin  old  genTm’n 
comes  into  the  shop  in  a  great  passion  and  says,  ‘  Are  you  the 
missis  o’  this  here  shop?’  ‘Yes,  I  am,’  says  she.  ‘Well, 
ma’am,’  says  he,  ‘then  I’ve  just  looked  in  to  say  that  me  and 
my  family  ain’t  a-goin’  to  be  choked  for  nothin’  ;  and  more 
than  that,  ma’am,’  he  says,  ‘  you’ll  allow  me  to  observe,  that  as 
you  don’t  use  the  primest  parts  of  the  meat  in  the  manufacture 
o’  sassages,  I  think  you’d  find  beef  come  nearly  as  cheap  as 
buttons.’  ‘As  buttons,  sir  !  ’  says  she.  ‘Buttons,  ma’am,’  says 
the  little  old  gentleman,  unfolding  a  bit  of  paper,  and  showin’ 
twenty  or  thirty  halves  of  buttons.  c  Nice  seasonin’  for  sas¬ 
sages,  is  trousers’  buttons,  ma’am.’  ‘They’re  my  husband’s 
buttons  !  ’  says  the  widder,  beginning  to  faint.  ‘  What  !  ’  screams 
the  little  old  genTm’n,  turnin’  wery  pale.  ‘  I  see  it  all,’  says 
the  widder  ;  ‘  in  a  fit  of  temporary  insanity  he  rashly  converted 
his-self  into  sassages  !  ’  And  so  he  had,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Weller ; 
looking  steadily  into  Mr.  Pickwick’s  horror-stricken  counte¬ 
nance,  “or  else  he’d  been  draw’d  into  the  ingine  ;  but  however 
that  might  ha’  been,  the  little  old  genTm’n,  who  had  been  re¬ 
markably  partial  to  sassages  all  his  life,  rushed  out  o’  the  shop 
in  a  wild  state,  and  was  never  heerd  on  artervards  !  ” 

u  TPY  the  bye,  Bob,”  said  Hopkins,  with  a  scarcely  percepti- 
JD  ble  glance  at  Mr.  Pickwick’s  attentive  face,  “  we  had  a 
curious  accident  last  night.  A  child  was  brought  in  who  had 
swallowed  a  necklace.” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES.  71 

“  Swallowed  what,  sir  ?  ”  interrupted  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“A  necklace,”  replied  Jack  Hopkins.  “Not  all  at  once, 
you  know,  that  would  be  too  much — you  couldn’t  swallow  that, 
if  the  child  did — eh,  Mr.  Pickwick,  ha !  ha  !  ”  Mr.  Hopkins 
appeared  highly  gratified  with  his  own  pleasantry ;  and  con¬ 
tinued.  “No,  the  way  was  this.  Child’s  parents  were  poor 
people  who  lived  in  a  court.  Child’s  eldest  sister  bought  a 
necklace ;  common  necklace,  made  of  large  black  wooden 
beads.  Child,  being  fond  of  toys,  cribbed  the  necklace,  hid  it, 
played  with  it,  cut  the  string,  and  swallowed  a  bead.  Child 
thought  it  capital  fun,  went  back  next  day,  and  swallowed 
another  bead.” 

“Bless  my  heart,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “what  a  dreadful 
thing  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Go  on.” 

“  Next  day,  child  swallowed  two  beads ;  the  day  after  that, 
he  treated  himself  to  three,  and  so  on,  till  in  a  week’s  time  he 
had  got  through  the  necklace — five-and-twenty  beads  in  all. 
The  sister,  who  was  an  industrious  girl,  and  seldom  treated 
herself  to  a  bit  of  finery,  cried  her  eyes  out  at  the  loss  of  the 
necklace ;  looked  high  and  low  for  it ;  but,  I  needn’t  say, 
didn’t  find  it.  A  few  days  afterwards,  the  family  were  at  din¬ 
ner — baked  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  potatoes  under  it — the 
child,  who  wasn’t  hungry,  was  playing  about  the  room,  when 
suddenly  there  was  heard  a  devil  of  a  noise,  like  a  small  hail¬ 
storm.  ‘Don’t  do  that,  my  boy,’  said  the  father.  ‘I  ain’t  a- 
doin’  nothing,’  said  the  child.  ‘Well,  don’t  do  it  again,’  said 
the  father.  There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  the  noise  be¬ 
gan  again,  worse  than  ever.  ‘If  you  don’t  mind  what  I  say, 
my  boy,’  said  the  father,  ‘you’ll  find  yourself  in  bed,  in  some¬ 
thing  less  than  a  pig’s  whisper.’  Pie  gave  the  child  a  shake  to 
make  him  obedient,  and  such  a  rattling  ensued  as  nobody  ever 
heard  before.  ‘  Why,  damme,  it’s  in  the  child  !  ’  said  the  father ; 
‘lie’s  got  the  croup  in  the  wrong  place!’  ‘No,  I  haven’t, 
father,’  said  the  child,  beginning  to  cry,  ‘it’s  the  necklace; 
I  swallowed  it,  father.’ — The  father  caught  the'  child  up,  and 
ran  with  him  to  the  hospital :  the  beads  in  the  boy’s  stomach 


72 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


rattling  all  the  way  with  the  jolting ;  and  the  people  looking  up 
in  the  air,  and  down  in  the  cellars,  to  see  where  the  unusual 
sound  came  from.  He’s  in  the  hospital  now,”  said  Jack  Hop¬ 
kins,  “  and  lie  makes  such  a  devil  of  a  noise  when  he  walks 
about,  that  they’re  obliged  to  muffle  him  in  a  watchman’s  coat, 
for  fear  he  should  wake  the  patients  !  ” 

aPHE’S  a  fine  woman,”  said  Mr.  Dowler.  “I  am  proud 
of  her.  I  have  reason.” 

“I  hope  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  judging,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  with  a  smile. 

“  You  shall,”  replied  Dowler.  “  She  shall  know  you.  She 
shall  esteem  you.  I  courted  her  under  singular  circumstances. 
I  won  her  through  a  rash  vow.  ,Thus.  I  saw  her;  I  loved 
her;  I  proposed;  she  refused  me. — ‘You  love  another?’ — 
‘  Spare  my  blushes.’ — £  I  know  him.’ — ‘You  do.’ — ‘  Very  good  ; 
if  he  remains  here,  I’ll  skin  him.’  ” 

“  Lord  bless  me  !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Pickwick,  involuntarily. 

“Did  you  skin  the  gentleman,  sir?”  inquired  Mr.  Winkle, 
with  a  very  pale  face. 

“  I  wrote  him  a  note.  I  said  it  was  a  painful  thing.  And 
so  it  was.” 

“  Certainly,”  interposed  Mr.  Winkle. 

“  I  said  1  had  pledged  my  word  as  a  gentleman  to  skin  him. 
My  character  was  at  stake.  I  had  no  alternative.  As  an 
officer  in  His  Majesty’s  service  I  was  bound  to  skin  him.  I 
regretted  the  necessity,  but  it  must  be  done.  He  was  open  to 
conviction.  He  saw  that  the  rules  of  the  service  were  impera¬ 
tive.  He  fled.  I  married  her.” 


MR.  PICKWICK  went  to  his  bedchamber,  and  Mr.  Dow¬ 
ler  resumed  his  seat  before  the  fire,  in  fulfilment  of  his 
rash  promise  to  sit  up  till  his  wife  came  home. 

There  are  few  things  more  worrying  than  sitting  up  for  some- 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


73 


body,  especially  if  that  somebody  be  at  a  party.  You  cannot 
help  thinking  how  quickly  the  time  passes  with  them,  which 
dfiags  so  heavily  with  you  ;  and  the  more  you  think  of  this, 
the  more  your  hopes  of  their  speedy  arrival  decline.  Clocks 
tick  so  loud,  too,  when  you  are  sitting  up  alone,  and  you  seem 
as  if  you  had  an  under-garment  of  cobwebs  on.  First,  some¬ 
thing  tickles  your  right  knee,  and  then  the  same  sensation 
irritates  your  left.  You  have  no  sooner  changed  your  position, 
than  it  comes  again  in  the  arms ;  when  you  have  fidgeted  your 
limbs  into  all  sorts  of  odd  shapes,  you  have  a  sudden  relapse 
in  the  nose,  which  you  rub  as  if  to  rub  it  off — as  there  is  no 
doubt  you  would,  if  you  could.  Eyes,  too,  are  mere  personal 
inconveniences ;  and  the  wick  of  one  candle  gets  an  inch  and 
a  half  long,  while  you  are  snuffing  the  other.  These,  and 
various  other  little  nervous  annoyances,  render  sitting  up  for 
a  length  of  time  after  everybody  else  has  gone  to  bed,  anything 
but  a  cheerful  amusement. 

This  was  just  Mr.  Dowler’ s  opinion,  as  he  sat  before  the 
fire,  and  felt  honestly  indignant  with  all  the  inhuman  people  at 
the  party,  who  were  keeping  him  up.  He  was  not  put  into 
better  humor  either,  by  the  reflection  that  he  had  taken  it  into 
his  head,  early  in  the  evening,  to  think  he  had  got  an  ache 
there,  and  so  stopped  at  home.  At  length,  after  several  drop¬ 
pings  asleep,  and  fallings  forward  towards  the  bars,  and  catch- 
ings  backward  soon  enough  to  prevent  being  branded  in  the 
face,  Mr.  Dowler  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  throw  him¬ 
self  on  the  bed  in  the  backroom  and  think — not  sleep  of 
course. 

“  I’m  a  heavy  sleeper,”  said  Mr.  Dowler,  as  he  flung  him¬ 
self  on  the  bed.  “  I  must  keep  awake.  I  suppose  I  shall 
hear  a  knock  here.  Yes  ;  I  thought  so.  I  can  hear  the  watch¬ 
man.  There  he  goes.  Fainter  now  though.  A  little  fainter. 
He’s  turning  the  corner.  Ah  !  ”  When  Mr.  Dowler  arrived 
at  this  point,  he  turned  the  corner  at  which  he  had  been  long 
hesitating,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck  three,  there  was  blown  into  the 
4 


74 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Crescent  a  sedan-chair  with  Mrs.  Dowler  inside,  borne  by  one 
short  fat  chairman,  and  one  long  thin  one,  who  had  had  much 
ado  to  keep  their  bodies  perpendicular ;  to  say  nothing  of  the 
chair.  But  on  that  high  ground,  and  in  the  Crescent,  which 
the  wind  swept  round  and  round,  as  if  it  were  going  to  tear 
the  paving  stones  up,  its  fury  was  tremendous.  They  were 
very  glad  to  set  the  chair  down,  and  give  a  good  round  loud 
double  knock  at  the  street  door. 

They  waited  some  time,  but  nobody  came. 

“  Servants  is  in  the  arms  o’  Porpus,  I  think,”  said  the  short 
chairman,  warming  his  hands  at  the  attendant  link-boy’s  torch. 

“  I  wish  he’d  give  ’em  a  squeeze  and  wake  ’em,”  observed 
the  long  one. 

“  Knock  again,  will  you,  if  you  please,”  cried  Mrs.  Dowler 
from  the  chair.  “  Knock  two  or  three  times,  if  you  please.” 

The  short  man  was  quite  willing  to  get  the  job  over,  as  soon 
as  possible ;  so  he  stood  on  the  step,  and  gave  four  or  five 
most  startling  double  knocks,  of  eight  or  ten  knocks  apiece ; 
while  the  long  man  went  into  the  road,  and  looked  up  at  the 
windows  for  a  light. 

Nobody  came.  It  was  all  as  silent  and  dark  as  ever. 

“  Dear  me!”  said  Mrs.  Dowler.  “You  must  knock  again, 
if  you  please.” 

“There  ain’t  a  bell,  is  there,  ma’am?”  said  the  short  chair¬ 
man. 

“Yes,  there  is,”  interposed  the  link-boy,  “  I’ve  been  a-ringing 
at  it  ever  so  long.” 

“  It’s  only  a  handle,”  said  Mrs.  Dowler,  “  the  wire’s  broken.” 

“  I  wish  the  servants’  heads  wos,”  growled  the  long  man. 

“  I  must  trouble  you  to  knock  again,  if  you  please,”  said 
Mrs.  Dowler,  with  the  utmost  politeness. 

The  short  man  did  knock  again  several  times,  without  pro¬ 
ducing  the  smallest  effect.  The  tall  man,  growing  very  im¬ 
patient,  then  relieved  him,  and  kept  on  perpetually  knocking 
double  knocks  of  two  loud  knocks  each,  like  an  insane  post¬ 
man. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


75 


At  length  Mr.  Winkle  began  to  dream  that  he  was  at  a  clnb, 
and  that  the  members  being  very  refractory,  the  chairman  was 
obliged  to  hammer  the  table  a  good  deal  to  preserve  order ; 
then,  he  had  a  confused  notion  of  an  auction-room  where  there 
were  no  bidders,  and  the  auctioneer  was  buying  everything  in  ; 
and  ultimately  he  began  to  think  it  just  within  the  bounds  of 
possibility  that  somebody  might  be  knocking  at  the  street  door. 
To  make  quite  certain,  however,  he  remained  quiet  in  bed  for 
ten  minutes  or  so,  and  listened ;  and  when  he  had  counted 
two  or  three  and  thirty  knocks,  he  felt  quite  satisfied,  and  gave 
himself  a  great  deal  of  credit  for  being  so  wakeful. 

“  Rap  rap — rap  rap — rap  rap — ra,  ra,  ra,  ra,  ra,  rap  !  ”  went 
the  knocker. 

Mr.  Winkle  jumped  out  of  bed,  wondering  very  much  what 
could  possibly  be  the  matter,  and  hastily  putting  on  his  stock¬ 
ings  and  slippers,  folded  his  dressing-gown  round  him,  lighted 
a  flat  candle  from  the  rush-light  that  was  burning  in  the  fire¬ 
place,  and  hurried  downstairs. 

“Here’s  somebody  cornin’  at  last,  ma’am,”  said  the  short 
chairman. 

“  I  wish  I  wos  behind  him  vith  a  bradawl,”  muttered  the 
long  one. 

“Who’s  there?”  cried  Mr.  Winkle,  undoing  the  chain. 

“Don’t  stop  to  ask  questions,  cast-iron  head,”  replied  the 
long  man,  with  great  disgust,  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  in¬ 
quirer  was  a  footman,  “but  open  the  door.” 

“  Come,  look  sharp,  timber  eyelids,”  added  the  other  en¬ 
couragingly. 

Mr.  Winkle,  being  half  asleep,  obeyed  the  command  mechan¬ 
ically,  opened  the  door  a  little,  and  peeped  out.  The  first 
thing  he  saw  was  the  red  glare  of  the  link-boy’s  torch.  Startled 
by  tl^p  sudden  fear  that  the  house  might  be  on  fire,  he  hastily 
threw  the  door  wide  open,  and  holding  the  candle  above  his 
head,  stared  eagerly  before  him,  not  quite  certain  whether  what 
he  saw  was  a  sedan-chair  or  a  fire-engine.  At  this  instant  there 
came  a  violent  gust  of  wind ;  the  light  was  blown  out ;  Mr. 


76 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Winkle  felt  himself  irresistibly  impelled  on  to  the  steps ;  and 
the  door  blew  to,  with  a  loud  crash. 

“Well,  young  man,  now  you  have  done  it!”  said  the  short 
chairman. 

Mr.  Winkle,  catching  sight  of  a  lady’s  face  at  the  window  of 
the  sedan,  turned  hastily  round,  plied  the  knocker  with  all  his 
might  and  mam,  and  called  frantically  upon  the  chairmen  to 
take  the  chair  away  again. 

“Take  it  away,  take  it  away,”  cried  Mr.  Winkle.  “Here’s 
somebody  coming  out  of  another  house  ;  put  me  into  the  chair. 
Hide  me  !  Do  something  for  me  !  ” 

All  this  time  he  was  shivering  with  cold ;  and  every  time  he 
raised  his  hand  to  the  knocker,  the  wind  took  the  dressing- 
gown  in  a  most  unpleasant  manner. 

“The  people  are  coming  down  the  Crescent  now.  There 
are  ladies  with  ’em ;  cover  me  up  with  something.  Stand 
before  me  !  ”  roared  Mr.  Winkle.  But  the  chairmen  were  too 
much  exhausted  with  laughing  to  afford  him  the  slightest  assist¬ 
ance,  and  the  ladies  were  every  moment  approaching  nearer 
and  nearer. 

Mr.  Winkle  gave  a  last  hopeless  knock ;  the  ladies  were  only 
a  few  doors  off.  He  threw  away  the  extinguished  candle, 
which,  all  this  time,  he  had  held  above  his  head,  and  fairly 
bolted  into  the  sedan-chair  where  Mrs.  Dowler  was. 

Now,  Mrs.  Craddock  had  heard  the  knocking  and  the  voices 
at  last ;  and,  only  waiting  to  put  something  smarter  on  her 
head  than  her  nightcap,  ran  down  into  the  front  drawing-room 
to  make  sure  that  it  was  the  right  party.  Throwing  up  the 
window-sash  as  Mr.  Winkle  was  rushing  into  the  chair,  she  no 
sooner  caught  sight  of  what  was  going  forward  below,  than  she 
raised  a  vehement  and  dismal  shriek,  and  implored  Mr.  Dowler 
to  get  up  directly,  for  his  wife  was  running  away  with  another 
gentleman. 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Dowler  bounced  off  the  bed  as  abruptly  as 
an  India-rubber  ball,  and  rushing  into  the  front  room,  arrived 
at  one  window  just  as  Mr.  Pickwick  threw  up  the  other;  when 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


77 


the  first  object  that  met  the  gaze  of  both,  was  Mr.  Winkle  bolt¬ 
ing  into  the  sedan-chair. 

“Watchman,”  shouted  Dowler,  furiously ;  “stop  him — hold 
him — keep  him  tight — shut  him  in,  till  I  come  down.  I’ll  cut 
his  throat — give  me  a  knife — from  ear  to  ear,  Mrs.  Craddock — 
I  will !  ”  And  breaking  from  the  shrieking  landlady,  and  from 
Mr.  Pickwick,  the  indignant  husband  seized  a  small  supper- 
knife,  and  tore  into  the  street. 

But  Mr.  Winkle  didn’t  wait  for  him.  He  no  sooner  heard 
the  horrible  threat  of  the  valorous  Dowler,  than  he  bounced 
out  of  the  sedan,  quite  as  quickly  as  he  had  bounced  in,  and 
throwing  off  his  slippers  into  the  road,  took  to  his  heels  and 
tore  round  the  Crescent,  hotly  pursued  by  Dowler  and  the 
watchman.  He  kept  ahead,  the  door  was  open  as  he  came 
round  the  second  time  ;  he  rushed  in,  slammed  it  in  Dowler’ s 
face,  mounted  to  his  bedroom,  locked  the  door,  piled  a  wash- 
hand-stand,  chest  of  drawers,  and  table  against  it,  and  packed  up 
a  few  necessaries  ready  for  flight  with  the  first  ray  of  morning. 

Dowler  came  up  to  the  outside  of  the  door ;  avowed,  through 
the  key-hole,  his  steadfast  determination  of  cutting  Mr.  Winkle’s 
throat  next  day ;  and,  after  a  great  confusion  of  voices  in  the 
drawing-room,  amidst  which  that  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  distinctly 
heard  endeavoring  to  make  peace,  the  inmates  dispersed  to 
their  several  bedchambers,  and  all  was  quiet  once  more. 


u  IDA  ID  you  leave  all  the  medicine  ?” 

J [_J  “Yes,  sir.” 

“  The  powders  for  the  child,  at  the  large  house  with  the 
new  family,  and  the  pills  to  be  taken  four  times  a  day  at  the 
ill-tempered  old  gentleman’s  with  the  gouty  leg?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Then  shut  the  door,  and  mind  the  shop.” 

“Come,”  said  Mr.  Winkle,  as  the  boy  retired,  “things  are 
not  quite  so  bad  as  you  would  have  me  believe,  either.  There 
is  some  medicine  to  be  sent  out.” 


78 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  peeped  into  the  shop  to  see  that  no  stran¬ 
ger  was  within  hearing,  and  leaning  forward  to  Mr.  Winkle, 
said  in  a  low  tone  : 

“  He  leaves  it  all  at  the  wrong  houses.” 

Mr.  Winkle  looked  perplexed,  and  Bob  Sawyer  and  his 
friend  laughed. 

“  Don’t  you  see?”  said  Bob.  “He  goes  up  to  a  house, 
rings  the  area  bell,  pokes  a  packet  of  medicine  without  a 
direction  into  the  servant’s  hand,  and  walks  off.  Servant  takes 
it  into  the  dining-parlor ;  master  opens  it,  and  reads  the  label : 
‘  Draught  to  be  taken  at  bedtime — pills  as  before — lotion  as 
usual — the  powder.  From  Sawyer’s,  late  Nockemorf’s.  Phy¬ 
sicians’  prescriptions  carefully  prepared,’  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
Shows  it  to  his  wife — she  reads  the  label ;  it  goes  down  to  the 
servants — they  read  the  label.  Next  day,  boy  calls:  ‘Very 
sorry — his  mistake — immense  business — great  many  parcels  to 
deliver — Mr.  Sawyer’s  compliments — late  Nockemorf.’  The 
name  gets  known,  and  that’s  the  thing,  my  boy,  in  the  medical 
way.  Bless  your  heart,  old  fellow,  it’s  better  than  all  the 
advertising  in  the  world.  We  have  got  one  four-ounce  bottle 
that’s  been  to  half  the  houses  in  Bristol,  and  hasn’t  done  yet.” 

“Dear  me,  I  see,”  observed  Mr.  Winkle;  “what  an  excel¬ 
lent  plan !  ” 

“  Oh,  Ben  and  I  have  hit  upon  a  dozen  such,”  replied  Bob 
Sawyer,  with  great  glee.  “The  lamplighter  has  eighteenpence 
a  week  to  pull  the  night-bell  for  ten  minutes  every  time  he 
comes  round;  and  my  boy  always  rushes  into  church,  just 
before  the  psalms,  when  the  people  have  got  nothing  to  do 
but  look  about  ’em,  and  calls  me  out,  with  horror  and  dismay 
depicted  on  his  countenance.  ‘  Bless  my  soul,’  everybody 
says,  ‘  somebody  taken  suddenly  ill !  Sawyer,  late  Nockemorf, 
sent  for.  What  a  business  that  young  man  has  !  ’  ” 

At  the  termination  of  this  disclosure  of  some  of  the  mysteries 
of  medicine,  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  and  his  friend,  Ben  Allen,  threw 
themselves  back  in  their  respective  chairs,  and  laughed  bois¬ 
terously.  When  they  had  enjoyed  the  joke  to  their  hearts’ 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


79 


content,  the  discourse  changed  to  topics  in  which  Mr.  Winkle 
was  more  immediately  interested. 


FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


APA  !  what’s  money  ?  ” 


X  The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  reference 
to  the  subject  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
was  quite  disconcerted. 

“  What  is  money,  Paul  ?  ”  he  answered.  “  Money  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  elbows  of 
his  little  chair,  and  turning  the  old  face  up  towards  Mr.  Dom¬ 
bey’s  ;  “  what  is  money  ?  ” 

Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a  difficulty.  He  would  have  liked  to 
give  him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms  circulating 
medium,  currency,  depreciation  of  currency,  paper,  bullion, 
rates  of  exchange,  value  of  precious  metals  in  the  market,  and 
so  forth  ;  but  looking  down  at  the  little  chair,  and  seeing  what 
a  long  way  down  it  was,  he  answered :  “  Gold,  and  silver,  and 
copper.  Guineas,  shillings,  halfpence.  You  know  what  they 


are  ?  ” 


“Oh  yes,  I  know  what  they  are,”  said  Paul.  “I  don’t 
mean  that,  papa.  I  mean  what’s  money  after  all.” 

Heaven  and  Earth,  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned  it  up 
again  towards  his  father’s  ! 

“  What  is  money  after  all !  ”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  backing  his 
chair  a  little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in  sheer  amazement 
at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  propounded  such  an  inquiry. 

“  I  mean,  papa,  what  can  it  do  ?  ”  returned  Paul,  folding 
his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long  enough  to  fold),  and  looking 
at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him 
again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place,  and 


/ 


8o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


patted  him  on  the  head.  “You’ll  know  better  by  and  by,  my 
man,”  he  said.  “  Money,  Paul,  can  do  anything.”  He  took 
hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it  softly  against  one  of  his 
own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could ;  and  rub¬ 
bing  it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  as  if  his  wit 
were  in  the  palm,  and  he  were  sharpening  it — and  looking  at 
the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had  been  his  adviser  and 
prompter — repeated,  after  a  short  pause  : 

“  Anything,  papa  ?  ” 

“  Yes.  Anything — almost,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“Anything  means  everything,  don’t  it,  papa?”  asked  his 
son  :  not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding,  the  qualifi¬ 
cation. 

“  It  includes  it :  yes,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“Why  didn’t  money  save  me  my  mamma?”  returned  the 
child.  “It  isn’t  cruel,  is  it  ? ” 

“  Cruel !  ”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neckcloth,  and 
seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  “No.  A  good  thing  can’t  be 
cruel.” 

“  If  it’s  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  anything,”  said  the  little 
fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire,  “  I  wonder 
why  it  didn’t  save  me  my  mamma.” 

“  T)AUL,  come.” 

JL  The  child  obeyed ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on 
his  knee. 

“  If  you  had  money  now — ”  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “  Look  at 
me  !  ” 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to  Walter, 
looked  his  father  in  the  face. 

“  If  you  had  money  now,”  said  Mr.  Dombey ;  “  as  much 
money  as  young  Gay  has  talked  about,  what  would  you  do  ?  ” 

“  Give  it  to  his  old  uncle,”  returned  Paul. 

“  Lend  it  to  his  old  uncle,  eh  ?  ”  retorted  Mr.  Dombey. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


Si 


“Well  !  When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know,  you  will  share 
my  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together.” 

“  Dombey  and  Son,”  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been  tutored 
early  in  the  phrase. 

“  Dombey  and  Son,”  repeated  his  father.  “  Would  you  like 
to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  now,  and  lend  this  money  to 
young  Gay’s  uncle  ?” 

“  Oh  !  if  you  please,  papa  !  ”  said  Paul :  “  and  so  would 
Florence.” 

f 

“  Girls,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “  have  nothing  to  do  with  Dom¬ 
bey  and  Son.  Would  you  like  it  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  papa,  yes  !  ” 

“  Then  you  shall  do  it,”  returned  his  father.  “  And  you  see, 
Paul,”  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  “how  powerful  money  is, 
and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get  it.  Young  Gay  comes  all 
this  way  to  beg  for  money,  and  you,  who  are  so  grand  and 
great,  having  got  it,  are  going  to  let  him  have  it,  as  a  great 
favor  and  obligation.” 

u  T  MUST  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  me,  on 

X  any  account,  Dombey,”  returned  Miss  Blimber.  “  I 
couldn’t  think  of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here  is  very 
far  removed  from  anything  of  that  sort.  A  repetition  of  such 
allusions  would  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  request  to  hear, 
without  a  mistake,  before  breakfast-time  to-morrow  morning, 
from  Verbum  personate  down  to  simillima  cygnoP 

“I  didn’t  mean,  ma’am — ”  began  little  Paul. 

“I  must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn’t  mean,  if 
you  please,  Dombey,”  said  Miss  Blimber,  who  preserved  an 
awful  politeness  in  her  admonitions.  “  That  is  a  line  of  argu¬ 
ment  I  couldn’t  dream  of  permitting.” 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only  looked  at 
Miss  Blimber’ s  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber,  having  shaken  her 
head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a  paper  lying  before  her. 

“  4  Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.’  If  myrecollec- 
4* 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


tion  serves  me,”  said  Miss  Blimber,  breaking  off,  “  the  word  an¬ 
alysis,  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  defined  by  Walker : 
‘The  resolution  of  an  object,  whether  of  the  senses  or  of  the 
intellect,  into  its  first  elements.’  As  opposed  to  synthesis,  you 
observe.  Now  you  know  what  analysis  is,  Dombey.” 

Dombey  didn’t  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the  light 
let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber  a  little 
bow. 

“ 1  Analysis,’  ”  resumed  Miss  Blimber,  casting  her  eye  over 
the  paper,  “  1  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.’  I  find  that  the 
natural  capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely  good ;  and  that  his 
general  disposition  to  study  may  be  stated  in  an  equal  ratio. 
Thus,  taking  eight  as  our  standard  and  highest  number,  I  find 
these  qualities  in  Dombey  stated  each  at  six  three-fourths.” 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this  news. 
Being  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths,  meant  six  pjounds 
fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  farthings,  or  six  foot  three,  or  three 
quarters  past  six,  or  six  somethings  that  he  hadn’t  learnt  yet, 
with  three  unknown  something  elses  over,  Paul  rubbed  his 
hands  and  looked  straight  at  Miss  Blimber.  It  happened  to 
answer  as  well  as  anything  else  he  could  have  done  ;  and  Cor¬ 
nelia  proceeded. 

uQO  hurrah  for  the  West  Indies,  Captain  Cuttle!  How 

k)  does  that  tune  go  that  the  sailors  sing  ? 

“  For  the  Port  of  Barbadoes,  boys  ! 

Cheerily  ! 

Leaving  old  England  behind  us,  boys  ! 

Cheerily  !  ” 

Here  the  Captain  roared  in  chorus — 

‘  ‘  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily  ! 

Oh  cheer — i — -ly  !  ” 


The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent  skipper 
not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who  instantly  sprang 
out  of  bed,  threw  up  his  window,  and  joined  in,  across  the 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


83 


street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  produced  a  fine  effect.  When  it 
was  impossible  to  sustain  the  concluding  note  any  longer,  the 
skipper  bellowed  forth  a  terrific  “  ahoy  !  ”  intended  in  part  as  a 
friendly  greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he  was  not  at  all 
breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his  window,  and  went  to 
bed  again. 


r  S  '1  HE  Captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a  corner,  and 
with  a  great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red,  pulled  up 
the  silver  watch,  which  was  so  big,  and  so  tight  in  his  pocket, 
that  it  came  out  like  a  bung. 

“  Wal’r,”  said  the  Captain,  handing  it  over,  and  shaking  him 
heartily  by  the  hand,  “  a  parting  gift,  my  lad.  Put  it  back 
half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  another  quarter  to¬ 
wards  the  arternoon,  and  ids  a  watch  that’ll  do  you  credit.” 

“  Captain  Cuttle  !  I  couldn’t  think  of  it !  ”  cried  Walter,  de¬ 
taining  him,  for  he  was  running  away.  “  Pray  take  it  back.  I 
have  one  already.” 

“  Then,  Wal’r,”  said  the  Captain,  suddenly  diving  into  one  of 
his  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  teaspoons  and  the  sugar- 
tongs,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself  to  meet  such  an  ob¬ 
jection,  “take  this  here  trifle  of  plate  instead.” 

“No,  no,  I  couldn’t  indeed!”  cried  Walter;  “  a  thousand 
thanks!  Don’t  throw  them  away,  Captain  Cuttle!”  for  the 
Captain  was  about  to  jerk  them  overboard.  “They’ll  be  of 
much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give  me  your  stick.  I  have 
often  thought  that  I  should  like  to  have  it.  There  !  Good- 
by,  Captain  Cuttle  !  take  care  of  my  uncle !  Uncle  Sol, 
God  bless  you  !  ” 

j 

AT  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  presented 
themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger’s  door,  that  worthy  but 
redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  conveying  Alexander 
MacStinger,  aged  two  years  and  three  months,  along  the  pass- 


84 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


age  for  forcible  deposition  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  street 
pavement ;  Alexander  being  black  in  the  face  with  holding  his 
breath  after  punishment,  and  a  cool  paving-stone  being  usually 
found  to  act  as  a  powerful  restorative  in  such  cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a  woman  and  a  mother, 
were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander  which  she 
observed  on  Florence’s  face.  Therefore,  Mrs.  MacStinger 
asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our  nature,  in  preference  to 
weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook  and  buffeted  Alexander 
both  before  and  during  the  application  of  the  paving-stone, 
and  took  no  further  notice  of  the  strangers. 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma’am,  said  Florence,  when  the  child 
had  found  his  breath  again,  and  using  it.  “  Is  this  Captain 
Cuttle’s  house  ?” 

“No,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

“Not  Number  Nine  ?”  asked  Florence  hesitatingly. 

“Who  said  it  wasn’t  Number  Nine?”  asked  Mrs.  Mac¬ 
Stinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  inquire 
what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  that,  and  if  she  knew  whom 
she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  retort,  looked  at  her  all  over.  “  What 
do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish  to  know  ?  ” 
said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

“  Should  you  ?  Then  I’m  sorry  that  you  won’t  be  satisfied,” 
returned  Miss  Nipper. 

“  Hush,  Susan  !  if  you  please  !  ”  said  Florence.  “  Perhaps 
you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  where  Captain  Cuttle 
lives,  ma’am,  as  he  don’t  live  here.” 

“Who  says  he  don’t  live  here?”  retorted  the  implacable 
MacStinger.  “I  said  it  wasn’t  Cap’en  Cuttle’s  house — and  it 
ain’t  his  house — and  forbid  it,  that  it  ever  should  be  his  house 
— for  Cap’en  Cuttle  don’t  know  how  to  keep  a  house — and 
don’t  deserve  to  have  a  house — it’s  my  house — and  when  I  let 
the  upper  floor  to  Cap’en  Cuttle,  oh  I  do  a  thankless  thing,  and 
cast  pearls  before  swine  !  ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


35 


.  Mrs.  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  windows  in 
offering  these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each  clause  sharply  by 
itself  as  if  from  n  rifle  possessing  an  infinity  of  barrels.  After 
the  last  shot,  the  Captain’s  voice  was  heard  to  say  in  feeble  re¬ 
monstrance  from  his  own  room,  “  Steady  below  !  ” 

44  T  F  you  please,  ma’am,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  can’t  do 
JL  nothing  with  missis  !  ” 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?  ”  asked  Edith. 

“Well,  ma’am,”  replied  the  frightened  maid,  “  I  hardly  know. 
She’s  making  faces.” 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother’s  room.  Cleopatra  was 
arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds,  short-sleeves,  rouge, 
curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility  all  complete  ;  but  Paralysis 
was  not  to  be  deceived,  had  known  her  for  the  object  of  its 
errand,  and  had  struck  her  at  her  glass,  where  she  lay  like  a 
horrible  doll  that  had  tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and  put  the  little 
of  her  that  was  real  on  a  bed.  Doctors  were  sent  for,  and 
soon  came.  Powerful  remedies  were  resorted  to ;  opinions 
given  that  she  would  rally  from  this  shock,  but  would  not  sur¬ 
vive  another^  and  there  she  lay  speechless,  and  staring  at  the 
ceiling  for  days  ;  sometimes  making  inarticulate  sounds  in  an¬ 
swer  to  such  questions  as  did  she  know  who  were  present,  and 
the  like  ;  sometimes  giving  no  reply  either  by  sign  or  gesture, 
or  in  her  unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in  some 
degree  the  power  of  motion,  though  not  yet  of  speech.  One 
day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned  ;  and  showing  it  to  her 
maid,  who  was  in  attendance  on  her,  and  appearing  very  un¬ 
easy  in  her  mind,  she  made  signs  for  a  pencil  and  some  paper. 
This  the  maid  immediately  provided,  thinking  she  was  going  to 
make  a  will,  or  write  some  last  request ;  and  Mrs.  Dombey 
being  from  home,  the  maid  awaited  the  result  with  solemn 
feelings. 


86 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  putting  in  of 
wrong  characters,  which  seemed  to  tumble  out  of  the  pencil  of 
their  own  accord,  the  old  woman  produced  this  document  : 

“  Rose-colored  curtains.” 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  tolerable  rea¬ 
son,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscript  by  adding  two  words 
more,  when  it  stood  thus  : 

“  Rose-colored  curtains  for  doctors.” 

The  maid  now  perceived  remotely  that  she  wished  these 
articles  to  be  provided  for  the  better  presentation  of  her  com¬ 
plexion  to  the  faculty ;  and  as  those  in  the  house  who  knew 
her  best  had  no  doubt  of  the  correctness  of  this  opinion,  which 
she  was  soon  able  to  establish  for  herself,  the  rose-colored  cur¬ 
tains  were  added  to  her  bed,  and  she  mended  with  increased 
rapidity  from  that  hour.  She  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls 
and  a  laced  cap  and  night-gown,  and  to  have  a  little  artificial 
bloom  dropped  into  the  hollow  caverns  of  her  cheeks. 

It  was  a  tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old  woman  in  her 
finery  leering  and  mincing  at  death,  and  playing  off  her  youth¬ 
ful  tricks  upon  him  as  if  he  had  been  the  Major ;  but  an  alter¬ 
ation  in  her  mind  that  ensued  on  the  paralytic  stroke  was 
fraught  with  as  much  matter  for  reflection,  and  was  quite  as 
ghastly. 


'\/T  DOMBEY,  I  beg  your  pardon,”  says  Mr.  Toots, 

._V_L  in  a  sad  fluster,  “but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — 
to—” 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings  him  to 
a  dead  stop. 

“  If  you  would  allow  me  to — if  you  would  not  consider  it  a 
liberty,  Miss  Dombey,  if  I  was  to — without  any  encouragement 
at  all,  if  I  was  to  hope,  you  know,”  says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

“  Miss  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  feels  that  he  is  in  for 
it  now,  “  I  really  am  in  that  state  of  adoration  of  you  that  I 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


87 


don’t  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I  am  the  most  deplorable 
wretch.  If  it  wasn’t  at  the  corner  of  the  Square  at  present,  I 
should  go  down  on  my  knees,  and  beg  and  entreat  of  you,  with¬ 
out  any  encouragement  at  all,  just  to  let  me  hope  that  I  may 
— may  think  it  possible  that  you — ” 

“  Oh,  if  you  please,  don’t !  ”  cries  Florence,  for  the  moment 
quite  alarmed  and  distressed.  “  Oh,  pray  don’t,  Mr.  Toots. 
Stop,  if  you  please.  Don’t  say  any  more.  As  a  kindness  and 
a  favor  to  me,  don’t.” 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 

“  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,”  says  Florence,  “  I  am  so 
grateful  to  you,  I  have  such  reason  to  like  you  for  being  a  kind 
friend  to  me,  and  I  do  like  you  so  much  ;  ”  and  here  the  ingen¬ 
uous  face  smiles  upon  him  with  the  pleasantest  look  of  honesty 
in  the  world,  “  that  I  am  sure  you  are  only  going  to  say  good- 
by.” 

“  Certainly,  Miss  Dombey,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  “I — I — That’s 
exactly  what  I  mean.  It’s  of  no  consequence.” 

“  Good-by  !  ”  cries  Florence. 

“Good-by,  Miss  Dombey!”  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  “I 
hope  you  won’t  think  anything  about  it.  It’s — it’s  of  no  con¬ 
sequence,  thank  you.  It’s  not  of  the  least  consequence  in  the 


world.” 


HE  Captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  philoso- 


X  pher,  if  only  in  a  monosyllable  or  a  signal ;  but  always 
failed,  in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the  guard,  and  the 
difficulty  at  all  times  peculiar  to  Bunsby’s  constitution,  of  having 
his  attention  aroused  by  any  outward  and  visible  sign  whatever. 
Thus  they  approached  the  chapel,  a  neat,  whitewashed  edifice, 
recently  engaged  by  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  Howler,  who 
had  consented,  on  very  urgent  solicitation,  to  give  the  world 
another  two  years  of  existence,  but  had  informed  his  followers 
that,  then,  it  must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offering  up  some  ex- 


88 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


temporary  orisons,  the  Captain  found  an  opportunity  of  growl¬ 
ing  in  the  bridegroom’s  ear  : 

“  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?  ” 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a  forgetfulness  of  the  Rev¬ 
erend  Melchisedech,  which  nothing  but  his  desperate  circum¬ 
stances  could  have  excused  : 

“  D— d  bad.” 

“Jack  Bunsby,”  whispered  the  Captain,  “do  you  do  this 
here  o’  your  own  free  will  ?  ” 

Mr.  Bunsby  answered  “  No.” 

“Why  do  you  do  it  then,  my  lad?”  inquired  the  Captain, 
not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with  an  immovable 
countenance  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world,  made  no  reply. 

“  Why  not  sheer  off?”  said  the  Captain. 

“  Eh  ?  ”  whispered  Bunsby,  with  a  momentary  gleam  of 
hope. 

“  Sheer  off,”  said  the  Captain. 

“Where’s  the  good?”  retorted  the  forlorn  sage.  “She’d 
capter  me  agen.” 

“  Try  !  ”  replied  the  Captain.  “  Cheer  up !  Come  !  Now’s 
your  time.  Sheer  off,  Jack  Bunsby  !  ” 

Jack  Bunsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting  by  the  advice, 
said  in  a  doleful  whisper  : 

“  It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o’  yourn.  Why  did  I  ever 
conwoy  her  into  port  that  night  ?  ” 

“My  lad,”  faltered  the  Captain,  “I  thought  as  you  had 
come  over  her  ;  not  as  she  had  come  over  you.  A  man  as 
has  got  such  opinions  as  you  have  !  ” 

Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a  suppressed  groan. 

“  Come  !  ”  said  the  Captain,  nudging  him  with  his  elbow, 
“  now’s  your  time  !  Sheer  off!  I’ll  cover  your  retreat.  The 
time’s  a-flying.  •  Bunsby  !  It’s  for  liberty.  Will  you  once  ?  ” 

Bunsby  was  immovable. 

“  Bunsby  !  ”  whispered  the  Captain,  “  will  you  twice  ?  ” 

Bunsby  wouldn’t  twice. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


89 


“Bunsby!”  urged  the  Captain,  “it’s  for  liberty;  will  you 
three  times  ?  Now  or  never  !  ” 

Bunsby  didn’t  then,  and  didn’t  ever;  for  Mrs.  MacStinger 
immediately  afterwards  married  him. 


ND  bear  a  hand  and  cheer  up,”  said  the  Captain,  pat- 


l  \  ting  him  on  the  back.  “What !  There’s  more  than  one 
sweet  creetur  in  the  world  !  ” 

“Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,”  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely. 
“Not  to  me,  I  assure  you.  The  state  of  my  feelings  towards 
Miss  Dombey  is  of  that  unspeakable  description,  that  my  heart 
is  a  desert  island,  and  she  lives  in  it  alone.  I’m  getting  more 
used  up  every  day,  and  I’m  proud  to  be  so.  If  you  could  see 
my  legs  when  I  take  my  boots  off,  you’d  form  some  idea  of 
what  unrequited  affection  is.  I  have  been  prescribed  bark, 
but  I  don’t  take  it,  for  I  don’t  wish  to  have  any  tone  whatever 
given  to  my  constitution.  I’d  rather  not.” 

IT  sat  down,  with  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fire-place,  and  as  it 
lost  itself  in  thought  there  shone  into  the  room  a  gleam  of 
light ;  a  ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  unmindful,  and  sat  thinking. 
Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a  terrible  face,  and  that  guilty  hand 
grasping  what  was  in  its  breast.  Then  it  was  arrested  by  a  cry 
— a  wild,  loud,  piercing,  loving,  rapturous  cry — and  he  only 
saw  his  own  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  at  his  knees,  his  daugh¬ 
ter  ! 

Yes.  His  daughter !  Look  at  her !  Look  here  !  Down 
upon  the  ground,  clinging  to  him,  calling  to  him,  folding  her 
hands,  praying  to  him  ! 

“Papa!  Dearest  papa!  Pardon  me,  forgive  me  !  I  have, 
come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I  never  can  be 
happy  more,  without  it !  ” 

Unchanged  still.  Of  all  the  world,  unchanged.  Raising  the 
same  face  to  his,  as  on  that  miserable  night.  Asking  his  for¬ 
giveness  ! 


9° 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Dear  papa,  oh  don’t  look  strangely  on  me  !  I  never 
meant  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  of  it,  before  or  after¬ 
wards.  I  was  frightened  when  I  went  away,  and  could  not 
think.  Papa,  dear,  I  am  changed.  I  am  penitent.  I  know 
my  fault.  I  know  my  duty  better  now.  Papa,  don’t  cast  me 
off,  or  I  shall  die  !  ” 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arms  about 
her  neck  ;  he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  his  ;  he  felt  her  kisses 
on  his  face  ;  he  felt  her  wet  cheek  laid  against  his  own  ;  he  felt 
— oh,  how  deeply  ! — all  that  he  had  done. 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the  heart  that 
he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now  covered  with  his 
hands,  and  said,  sobbing : 

“  Papa,  love,  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  a  child  who  will  soon 
call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I  call  you.  When  it  was 
born,  and  when  I  knew  how  much  I  loved  it,  I  knew  what  I 
had  done  in  leaving  you.  Forgive  me,  dear  papa  !  oh  say  God 
bless  me,  and  my  little  child !  ” 

He  would  have  said  it,  if  he  could.  He  would  have  raised 
his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she  caught  them  in 
her  own,  and  put  them  down,  hurriedly. 

“  My  little  child  was  born  at  sea,  papa.  I  prayed  to  God 
(and  so  did  Walter  for  me)  to  spare  me,  that  I  might  come 
home.  The  moment  I  could  land,  I  came  back  to  you. 
Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more,  papa  !  ” 

His  head,  now  gray,  was  encircled  by  her  arm  ;  and  he 
groaned  to  think  that  never,  never,  had  it  rested  so  before. 

“You  will  come  home  with  me,  papa,  and  see  my  baby.  A 
boy,  papa.  His  name  is  Paul.  I  think — I  hope — he’s  like — ” 

Her  tears  stopped  her. 

“  Dear  papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sake  of  the 
name  we  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon  Walter.  He  is 
so  kind  and  tender  to  me.  I  am  so  happy  with  him.  It  was 
not  his  fault  that  we  were  married.  It  was  mine.  I  loved 
him  so  much.” 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  more  earnest. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


91 


“  He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart,  papa.  I  would  die  for  him. 
He  will  love  and  honor  you  as  I  will.  We  will  teach  our  little 
child  to  love  and  honor  you ;  and  we  will  tell  him,  when  he 
can  understand,  that  you  had  a  son  of  that  name  once,  and  that 
he  died,  and  you  were  very  sorry ;  but  that  he  has  gone  to 
heaven,  where  we  all  hope  to  see  him  when  our  time  for  rest¬ 
ing  comes.  Kiss  me,  papa,  as  a  promise  that  you  will  be 
reconciled  to  Walter — to  my  dearest  husband — to  the  father  of 
the  little  child  who  taught  me  to  come  back,  papa.  Who 
taught  me  to  come  back  !  ” 

As  she  clung  closer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of  tears,  he 
kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  said,  “  Oh  my 
God,  forgive  me,  for  I  need  it  very  much  !  ” 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  over  and 
caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  all  the  house  for  a 
long,  long  time  ;  they  remaining  clasped  in  one  another’s  arms, 
in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had  crept  in  with  Florence. 


.FROM  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

BUT,  astounded  as  he  was  by  the  apparition  of  the  dwarf 
among  the  Little  Bethelites,  and  not  free  from  a  misgiving 
that  it  was  the  forerunner  of  some  trouble  or  annoyance,  he 
was  compelled  to  subdue  his  wonder,  and  to  take  active  meas¬ 
ures  for  the  withdrawal  of  his  parent,  as  the  evening  was  now 
creeping  on,  and  the  matter  grew  serious.  Therefore,  the  next 
time  little  Jacob  woke,  Kit  set  himself  to  attract  his  wandering 
attention,  and  this  not  being  a  very  difficult  task  (one  sneeze 
effected  it),  he  signed  to  him  to  rouse  his  mother. 

Ill-luck  would  have  it,  however,  that  just  then  the  preacher, 
in  a  forcible  exposition  of  one  head  of  his  discourse,  leaned 
over  upon  the  pulpit-desk,  so  that  very  little  more  of  him  than 
his  legs  remained  inside;  and,  while  he  made  vehement  gestures 


92 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


with  his  right  hand,  and  held  on  with  his  left,  stared,  or  seemed 
to  stare,  straight  into  little  Jacob’s  eyes,  threatening  him  by  his 
strained  look  and  attitude — so  it  appeared  to  the  child — that  if 
he  so  much  as  moved  a  muscle,  he,  the  preacher,  would  be  lit¬ 
erally,  and  not  figuratively,  “  down  upon  him”  that  instant.  In 
this  fearful  state  of  things,  distracted  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Kit,  and  fascinated  by  the  eyes  of  the  preacher,  the  miserable 
Jacob  sat  bolt-upright,  wholly  incapable  of  motion,  strongly 
disposed  to  cry,  but  afraid  to  do  so,  and  returning  his  pastor’s 
gaze  until  his  infant  eyes  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets. 

“  If  I  must  do  it  openly,  I  must,”  thought  Kit.  With  that 
he  walked  softly  out  of  his  pew  and  into  his  mother’s,  and,  as 
Mr.  Swiveller  would  have  observed,  if  he  had  been  present, 
“collared”  the  baby  without  speaking  a  word. 

“Hush,  mother  !”  whispered  Kit.  “Come  along  with  me, 
I’ve  got  something  to  tell  you.” 

“Where  am  I?”  said  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

“In  this  blessed  Little  Bethel,”  returned  her  son,  peevishly. 

“  Blessed  indeed  !  ”  cried  Mrs.  Nubbles,  catching  at  the  word. 
“  Oh,  Christopher  !  how  have  I  been  edified  this  night !  ” 

“Yes,  yes,  I  know,” /said  Kit,  hastily;  “but  come  along, 
mother;  everybody’s  looking  at  us.  Don’t  make  a  noise — 
bring  Jacob — that’s  right !  ” 

“Stay,  Satan,  stay!  ”  cried  the  preacher,  as  Kit  was  moving 
off. 

“  The  gentleman  says  you’re  to  stay,  Christopher,”  whispered 
his  mother. 

“Stay,  Satan,  stay!”  roared  the  preacher  again.  “Tempt 
not  the  woman  that  doth  incline  her  ear  to  thee,  but  hearken  to 
the  voice  of  him  that  calleth.  He  hath  a  lamb  from  the  fold  !  ” 
cried  the  preacher,  raising  his  voice  still  higher,  and  pointing  to 
the  baby.  “He  beareth  off  a  lamb,  a  precious  lamb!  He 
goeth  about,  like  a  wolf  in  the  night  season,  and  mveigleth  the 
tender  lambs  !  ” 

Kit  was  the  best-tempered  fellow  in  the  world,  but  consider¬ 
ing  this  strong  language,  and  being  somewhat  excited  by  the 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


93 


circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed,  he  faced  round  on  the 
pulpit,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms,  and  replied  aloud — 

“No,  I  don’t.  He’s  my  brother.” 

“  He’s  my  brother  !  ”  cried  the  preacher. 

“He  isn’t,”  said  Kit,  indignantly.  “How  can  you  say  such 
a  thing?  And  don’t  call  me  names,  if  you  please  ;  what  harm 
have  I  done?  I  shouldn’t  have  come  to  take  ’em  away,  unless 
I  was  obliged,  you  may  depend  upon  that.  I  wanted  to  do  it 
very  quiet,  but  you  wouldn’t  let  me.  Now,  you  have  the  good¬ 
ness  to 'abuse  Satan  and  them  as  much  as  you  like,  sir,  and 
to  let  me  alone,  if  you  please.” 

So  saying,  Kit  marched  out  of  the  chapel,  followed  by 
his  mother  and  little  Jacob,  and  found  himself  in  the  open  air, 
with  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having  seen  the  people  wake 
up  and  look  surprised,  and  of  Quilp  having  remained,  through¬ 
out  the  interruption,  in  his  old  attitude,  without  moving  his 
eyes  from  the  ceiling,  or  appearing  to  take  the  smallest  notice 
of  anything  that  passed. 


44  \  T  T ILL  you  answer  me?”  said  Quilp.  “What’s  going 
V V  on,  above  ?  ” 

“  You  won’t  let  one  speak,”  replied  the  boy*  “They — ha, 
ha,  ha  ! — they  think  you’re — you’re  dead.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  ” 
“Dead  !”  cried  Quilp,  relaxing  into  a  grim  laugh  himself. 
“  No.  Do  they  ?  Do  they  really,  you  dog  ?  ” 

“  They  think  you’re — you’re  drowned,”  replied  the  boy,  who 
in  fiis  malicious  nature  had  a  strong  infusion  of  his  master. 
“  You  was  last  seen  on  the  brink  of  the  wharf,  and  they  think 
you  tumbled  over.  Ha,  ha  !  ” 

The  prospect  of  playing  the  spy  under  such  delicious  cir¬ 
cumstances,  and  of  disappointing  them  all  by  walking  in  alive, 
gave  mord  delight  to  Quilp  than  the  greatest  stroke  of  good 
fortune  could  possibly  have  inspired  him  with.  He  was  no  less 
tickled  than  his  hopeful  assistant,  and  they  both  stood  for  some 
seconds,  grinning  and  gasping  and  wagging  their  heads  at  each 


94 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


other,  on  either  side  of  the  post,  like  an  unmatchable  pail  nf 
Chinese  idols. 

“Not  a  word,”  said  Quilp,  making  towards  the  door  on  tip¬ 
toe.  “Not  a  sound,  not  so  much  as  a  creaking  board,  or  a 
stumble  against  a  cobweb.  Drowned,  eh,  Mrs.  Quilp  ! 
Drowned  !” 

So  saying,  he  blew  out  the  candle,  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and 
groped  his  way  upstairs ;  leaving  his  delighted  young  friend  in 
an  ecstasy  of  somersets  on  the  pavement. 

The  bedroom  door  on  the  staircase  being  unlocked,  Mr. 
Quilp  slipped  in,  and  planted  himself  behind  the  door  of  com¬ 
munication  between  that  chamber  and  the  sitting-room,  which 
standing  ajar  to  render  both  more  airy,  and  having  a  very  con¬ 
venient  chink  (of  which  he  had  often  availed  himself  for  pur¬ 
poses  of  espial,  and  had  indeed  enlarged  with  his  pocket-knife), 
enabled  him  not  only  to  hear,  but  to  see  distinctly  what  was 
passing. 

Applying  his  eye  to  this  convenient  place,  he  descried  Mr. 
Brass  seated  at  the  table  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  the 
case-bottle  of  rum— his  own  case-bottle,  and  his  own  particular 
Jamaica — convenient  to  his  hand;  with  hot  water,  fragrant 
lemons,  white  lump  sugar,  and  all  things  fitting ;  from  which 
choice  materials,  Sampson,  by  no  means  insensible  to  their 
claims  upon  his  attention,  had  compounded  a  mighty  glass  of 
punch  reeking  hot ;  which  he  was  at  that  very  moment  stirring 
up  with  a  teaspoon,  and  contemplating  with  looks  in  which  a 
faint  assumption  of  sentimental  regret  struggled  but  weakly 
with  a  bland  and  comfortable  joy.  At  the  same  table,  with 
both  her  elbows  upon  it,  was  Mrs.  Jiniwin  ;  no  longer  sipping 
other  people’s  punch  feloniously  with  teaspoons,  but  taking 
deep  draughts  from  a  jorum  of  her  own  ;  while  her  daughter — 
not  exactly  with  ashes  on  her  head,  or  sackcloth  on  her  back, 
but  preserving  a  very  decent  and  becoming  appearance  of  sor¬ 
row  nevertheless — was  reclining  in  an  easy  chair,  and  soothing 
her  grief  with  a  -smaller  allowance  of  the  same  glib  liquid. 
There  were  also  present  a  couple  of  water-side  men,  bearing 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


95 


between  them  certain  machines  called  drags  ;  even  these  fel¬ 
lows  were  accommodated  with  a  stiff  glass  apiece  ;  and  as  they 
drank  with  a  great  relish,  and  were  naturally  of  a  red-nosed, 
pimple-faced,  convivial  look,  their  presence  rather  increased 
than  detracted  from  that  decided  appearance  of  comfort,  which 
was~  the  great  characteristic  of  the  party. 

“If  I  could  poison  that  dear  old  lady’s  rum  and  water,” 
murmured  Quilp,  “I’d  die  happy.” 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Mr.  Brass,  breaking  the  silence,  and  raising 
his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with  a  sigh,  “who  knows  but  he  may 
be  looking  down  upon  us  now !  Who  knows  but  what  he  may 
be  surveying  of  us  from — from  somewheres  or  another,  and 
contemplating  us  with  a  watchful  eye  !  Oh  Lor  !  ” 

Here  Mr.  Brass  stopped  to  drink  half  his  punch,  and  then 
resumed ;  looking  at  the  other  half,  as  he  spoke,  with  a  de¬ 
jected  smile. 

“  I  can  almost  fancy,”  said  the  lawyer,  shaking  his  head, 
“  that  I  see  his  eye  glistening  down  at  the  very  bottom  of  my 
liquor.  When  shall  we  look  upon  his  like  again  ?  Never, 
never!  One  minute  we  are  here” — holding  his  tumbler  be¬ 
fore  his  eyes — “the  next  we  are  there” — gulping  down  its  con¬ 
tents,  and  striking  himself  emphatically  a  little  below  the  chest 
— “  in  the  silent  tomb.  To  think  that  I  should  be  drinking  his 
very  rum  !  It  seems  like  a  dream.” 

With  the  view,  no  doubt,  of  testing  the  reality  of  his  position, 
Mr.  Brass  pushed  his  tumbler  as  he  spoke  towards  Mrs.  Jini- 
win  for  the  purpose  of  being  replenished ;  and  turned  towards 
the  attendant  mariners. 

“  The  search  has  been  quite  unsuccessful,  then  ?  ” 

“  Quite,  master.  But  I  should  say  that  if  he  turns  up  any¬ 
where,  he’ll  come  ashore  somewhere  about  Grinidge  to-mor- . 
row,  at  ebb-tide,  eh,  mate  ?  ” 

The  other  gentleman  assented,  observing  that  he  was  ex¬ 
pected  at  the  Hospital,  and  that  several  pensioners  would  be 
ready  to  receive  him  whenever  he  arrived.” 

“Then  we  have  nothing  for  it  but  resignation,”  said  Mr. 


96 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Brass  :  “nothing  but  resignation,  and  expectation.  It  would  be 
a  comfort  to  have  his  body  ;  it  would  be  a  dreary  comfort.” 

“  Oh,  beyond  a  doubt,”  assented  Mrs.  Jiniwin,  hastily ;  “  if 
vve  once  had  that,  we  should  be  quite  sure.” 

“  With  regard  to  the  descriptive  advertisement,”  said  Samp¬ 
son  Brass,  taking  up  his  pen.  “  It  is  a  melancholy  pleasure  to 
recall  his  traits.  Respecting  his  legs  now —  ?  ” 

“Crooked,  certainly,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“Do  you  think  they  were  crooked?”  said  Brass,  in  an  in¬ 
sinuating  tone.  “  I  think  I  see  them  now  coming  up  the 
street  very  wide  apart,  in  nankeen  pantaloons  a  little  shrunk 
and  without  straps.  Ah  !  what  a  vale  of  tears  we  live  in.  Do 
we  say  crooked  ?  ” 

“  I  think  they  were  a  little  so,”  observed  Mrs.  Quilp  with  a 
sob. 

“  Legs  crooked,”  said  Brass,  writing  as  he  spoke.  “  Large 
head,  short  body,  legs  crooked — ” 

“Very  crooked,”  suggested  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“We’ll  not  say  very  crooked,  ma’am,”  said  Brass  piously. 
“  Let  us  not  bear  hard  upon  the  weaknesses  of  the  deceased. 
He  is  gone,  ma’am,  to  where  his  legs  will  never  come  in 
question. — We  will  content  ourselves  with  crooked,  Mrs.  Jini¬ 
win.” 

“I  thought  you  wanted  the  truth,”-  said  the  old  lady. 
“  That’s  all.” 

“  Bless  your  eyes,  how  I  love  you,”  muttered  Quilp. 
“  There  she  goes  again.  Nothing  but  punch  !  ”  - 

“This  is  an  occupation,”  said  the  lawyer,  laying  down  his 
pen  and  emptying  his  glass,  “  which  seems  to  bring  him  before 
my  eyes  like  the  Ghost  of  Hamlet’s  father,  in  the  very  clothes 
that  he  wore  on  work-a-days.  His  coat,  his  waistcoat,  his  shoes 
and  stockings,  his  trousers,  his  hat,  his  wit  and  humor,  his 
pathos  and  his  umbrella,  all  come  before  me  like  visions  of  my 
youth.  His  linen  !  ”  said  Mr.  Brass  smiling  fondly  at  the  wall, 
“his  linen  which  was  always  of  a  particular  color,  for  such  was 
his  whim  and  fancy — how  plain  I  see  his  linen  now  1  ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


97 


“  You  had  better  go  on,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin  impatiently. 

“  True,  ma’am,  true,”  cried  Mr.  Brass.  “  Our  faculties  must 
not  freeze  with  grief.  I’ll  trouble  you  for  a  little  more  of  that, 
ma’am.  A  question  now  arises,  with  relation  to  his  nose.” 

“  Flat,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“Aquiline  !”  cried  Quilp,  thrusting  in  his  head,  and  striking 
the  feature  with  his  fist,  “  Aquiline,  you  hag.  Do  you  see  it  ? 
Do  you  call  that  flat  ?  Do  you  ?  Eh  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  capital,  capital  !  ”  shouted  Brass,  from  the  mere  force 
of  habit.  “Excellent!  How  very  good  he  is!  He’s  a  most 
remarkable  man — so  extremely  whimsical !  Such  an  amazing 
power  of  taking  people  by  surprise  !  ” 

Quilp  paid  no  regard  whatever  to  these  compliments,  nor  to 
the  dubious  and  frightened  look  into  which  the  lawyer  gradually 
subsided,  nor  to  the  shrieks  of  his  wife  and  mother-in-law,  nor 
to  the  latter’s  running  from  the  room,  nor  to  the  former’s  faint¬ 
ing  away.  Keeping  his  eye  fixed  on  Sampson  Brass,  he  walked 
up  to  the  table,  and  beginning  with  his  glass,  drank  off  the  con¬ 
tents,  and  went  regularly  round  until  he  had  emptied  the  other 
two,  when  he  seized  the  case-bottle,  and  hugging  it  under  his 
arm,  surveyed  him  with  a  most  extraordinary  leer. 

“  Not  yet,  Sampson,”  said  Quilp.  “  Not  just  yet !  ” 

“  Oh  very  good  indeed  !  ”  cried  Brass,  recovering  his  spirits 
a  little.  “  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Oh  exceedingly  good  !  There’s  not 
another  man  alive  who  could  carry  it  off  like  that.  A  most 
difficult  position  to  carry  off.  But  he  has  such  a  flow  of  good- 
humor,  such  an  amazing  flow !  ” 

“  Good-night,”  said  the  dwarf,  nodding  expressively. 

“  Good-night,  sir,  good-night,”  cried  the  lawyer,  retreating 
backwards  towards  the  door.  “This  is  a  joyful  occasion  in-, 
deed,  extremely  joyful.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  oh  very  rich,  very  rich 
indeed,  remarkably  so  !  ” 

Waiting  until  Mr.  Brass’s  ejaculations  died  away  in  the  dis¬ 
tance  (for  he  continued  to  pour  them  out  all  the  way  down¬ 
stairs),  Quilp  advanced  towards  the  two  men,  who  yet  lingered 
in  a  kind  of  stupid  amazement. 


98 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Have  you  been  dragging  the  river  all  day,  gentlemen  ?  ” 
said  the  dwarf,  holding  the  door  open  with  great  politeness. 

“  And  yesterday  too,  master.” 

“  Dear  me,  you’ve  had  a  deal  of  trouble.  Pray  consider 
everything  yours  that  you  find  upon  the — upon  the  body. 
Good-night  !  ” 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  but  had  evidently  no  in¬ 
clination  to  argue  the  point,  just  then,  and  shuffled  out  of  the 
room.  The  speedy  clearance  effected,  Quilp  locked  the  doors  ; 
and  still  embracing  the  case-bottle  with  shrugged-up  shoulders 
and  folded  arms,  stood  looking  at  his  insensible  wife  like  a  dis¬ 
mounted  nightmare. 

HE  awoke.  With  a  sensation  of  most  blissful  rest,  better 
than  sleep  itself,  he  began  gradually  to  remember  some¬ 
thing  of  these  sufferings,  and  to  think  what  a  long  night  it  had 
been,  and  whether  he  had  not  been  delirious  twice  or  thrice. 
Happening,  in  the  midst  of  these  cogitations,  to  raise  his  hand, 
he  was  astonished  to  find  how  heavy  it  seemed,  and  yet  how  thin 
and  light  it  really  was.  Still,  he  felt  indifferent  and  happy ;  and 
having  no  curiosity  to  pursue  the  subject,  remained  in  the  same 
waking  slumber  until  his  attention  was  attracted  by' a  cough. 
This  made  him  doubt  whether  he  had  locked  his  door  last 
night,  and  feeling  a  little  surprised  at  having  a  companion  in 
the  room.  Still,  he  lacked  energy  to  follow  up  this  train  of 
thought ;  and  unconsciously  fell,  in  a  luxury  of  repose,  to 
staring  at  some  green  stripes  on  the  bed  furniture,  and  associat¬ 
ing  them  strangely  with  patches  of  fresh  turf,  while  the  yellow 
ground  between  made  gravel-walks,  and  so  helped  out  a  long 
perspective  of  trim  gardens. 

He  was  rambling  in  imagination  on  these  terraces,  and  had 
quite  lost  himself  among  them  indeed,  when  he  heard  the  cough 
once  more.  The  walls  shrunk  into  stripes  again  at  the  sound, 
and  raising  himself  a  little  in  the  bed,  and  holding  the  curtain 
open  with  one  hand,  he  looked  out. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


99 


The  same  room  certainly,  and  still  by  candle-light ;  but  with 
what  unbounded  astonishment  did  he  see  all  those  bottles,  and 
basins,  and  articles  of  linen  airing  by  the  fire,  and  such  like 
furniture  of  a  sick-chamber — all  very  clean  and  neat,  but  all 
quite  different  from  anything  he  left  there,  when  he  went  to 
bed  !  The  atmosphere,  too,  filled  with  a  cool'  smell  of  herbs, 
and  vinegar  ;  the  floor  newly  sprinkled ;  the — the  what  ?  The 
Marchioness  ? 

Yes  ;  playing  cribbage  with  herself  at  the  table.  There  she 
sat,  intent  upon  her  game,  coughing  now  and  then  in  a  subdued 
manner  as  if  she  feared  to  disturb  him — shuffling  the  cards,  cut¬ 
ting,  dealing,  playing,  counting,  pegging — going  through  all  the 
mysteries  of  cribbage  as  if  she  had  been  in  full  practice  from 
her  cradle ! 

Mr.  Swiveller  contemplated  these  things  for  a  short  time, 
and  suffering  the  curtain  to  fall  into  its  former  position,  laid  his 
head  on  the  pillow  again. 

“  I’m  dreaming,”  thought  Richard,  “  that’s  clear.  When  I 
went  to  bed,  my  hands  were  not  made  of  egg-shells,  and  now 
I  can  almost  see  through  ’em.  If  this  is  not  a  dream,  I  have 
woke  up  by  mistake  in  an  Arabian  Night,  instead  of  a  London 
one.  But  I  have  no  doubt  I’m  asleep.  Not  the  least.” 

Here  the  small  servant  had  another  cough. 

“Very  remarkable !”  thought  Mr.  Swiveller.  “I  never 
dreamt  such  a  real  cough  as  that,  before.  I  don’t  know,  in¬ 
deed,  that  I  ever  dreamt  either  a  cough  or  a  sneeze.  Perhaps 
it’s  part  of  the  philosophy  of  dreams  that  one  never  does. 
There’s  another — and  another — I  say  ! — I’m  dreaming  rather 
fast !  ” 

For  the  purpose  of  testing  his  real  condition,  Mr.  Swiveller, 
after  some  reflection,  pinched  himself  in  the  arm. 

“  Queerer  still !  ”  he  thought.  “  I  came  to  bed  rather  plump 
than  otherwise,  and*  now  there’s  nothing  to  lay  hold  of.  I’ll 
take  another  survey.” 

The  result  of  this  additional  inspection  was,  to  convince  Mr. 
Swiveller  that  the  objects  by  which  he  was  surrounded  were 


IOO 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


real,  and  that  he  saw  them,  beyond  all  question,  with  his  wak¬ 
ing  eyes. 

“  Ids  an  Arabian  Night ;  that’s  what  it  is,”  said  Richard. 
“I’m  in  Damascus  or  Grand  Cairo.  The  Marchioness  is  a 
Genie,  and  having  had  a  wager  with  another  Genie  about  who 
is  the  handsomest  young  man  alive,  and  the  worthiest  to  be  the 
husband  of  the  Princess  of  China,  has  brought  me  away,  room 
and  all,  to  compare  us  together.  Perhaps,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
turning  languidly  round  on  his  pillow,  and  looking  on  that  side 
of  his  bed  which  was  next  the  wall,  “  the  Princess  may  be  still 
— no,  she’s  gone.” 

Not  feeling  quite  satisfied  with  this  explanation,  as,  even 
taking  it  to  be  the  correct  one,  it  still  involved  a  little  mystery 
and  doubt,  Mr.  Swiveller  raised  the  curtain  again,  determined 
to  take  the  first  favorable  opportunity  of  addressing  his  com¬ 
panion.  An  occasion  soon  presented  itself.  The  Marchioness 
dealt,  turned  up  a  knave,  and  omitted  to  take  the  usual  advan¬ 
tage  ;  upon  which  Mr.  Swiveller  called  out  as  loud  as  he  could 
— “  two  for  his  heels  !  ” 

The  Marchioness  jumped  up  quickly,  and  clapped  her  hands. 
“Arabian  Night,  certainly,”  thought  Mr.  Swiveller;  “they  al¬ 
ways  clap  their  hands  instead  of  ringing  the  bell.  Now  for  the 
two  thousand  black  slaves,  with  jars  of  jewels  on  their  heads  !  ” 

It  appeared,  however,  that  she  had  only  clapped  her  hands 
for  joy;  as,  directly  afterwards  she  began  to  laugh,  and  then  to 
cry  ;  declaring,  not  in  choice  Arabic  but  in  familiar  English, 
that  she  was  “  so  glad,  she  didn’t  know  what  to  do.” 

“  Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  thoughtfully,  “  be  pleased 
to  draw  nearer.  First  of  all,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  in¬ 
form  me  where  I  shall  find  my  voice ;  and  secondly,  what  has 
become  of  my  flesh  ?  ” 

The  Marchioness  only  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and  cried 
again  ;  whereupon  Mr.  Swiveller  (being  very  weak)  felt  his  own 
eyes  affected  likewise. 

“  I  begin  to  infer,  from  your  manner,  and  these  appearances, 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


IOI 


Marchioness,”  said  Richard  after  a  pause,  and  smiling  with  a 
trembling  lip,  “  that  I  have  been  ill.” 

“You  just  have  !  ”  replied  the  small  servant,  wiping  her  eyes. 
“And  haven’t  you  been  a-talking  nonsense  !” 

“  Oh  !  ”  said  Dick,  “very  ill,  Marchioness,  have  I  been  ?” 

“  Dead,  all  but,”  replied  the  small  servant.  “  I  never  thought 
you’d  get  better.  Thank  Heaven  you  have  !  ” 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


NE  Sunday  night  my  mother  reads  to  Peggotty  and  me 


> — J  in  there,  how  Lazarus  was  raised  up  from  the  dead.  And 
I  am  so  frightened  that  they  are  afterwards  obliged  to  take  me 
out  of  bed,  and  show  me  the  quiet  churchyard  out  of  the  bed¬ 
room  window,  with  the  dead  all  lying  in  their  graves  at  rest, 
below  the  solemn  moon. 

^  "\  /T  ASTER  DAVY,”  said  Peggotty,  untying  her  bonnet 

1V1  with  a  shaking  hand,  and  speaking  in  a  breathless 
sort  of  way,  “  what  do  you  think  ?  You  have  got  a  pa  !  ” 

I  trembled,  and  turned  white.  Something — I  don’t  know 
what,  or  how — connected  with  the  grave  in  the  churchyard, 
and  the  raising  of  the  dead,  seemed  to  strike  me  like  an  un¬ 
wholesome  wind. 

“  A  new  one,”  said  Peggotty. 

“  A  new  one  ?  ”  I  repeated. 

Peggotty  gave  a  gasp,  as  if  she  were  swallowing  something 
that  was  very  hard,  and,  putting  out  her  hand,  said  : 

“  Come  and  see  him.” 

“  1  don’t  want  to  see  him.” 

E'  VEN  when  the  lessons  are  done,  the  worst  is  yet  to  hap- 
j  pen,  in  the  shape  of  an  appalling  sum.  This  is  invented 
for  me,  and  delivered  to  me  orally  by  Mr.  Murdstone,  and  be- 


102 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


gins  :  “  If  I  go  into  a  cheesemonger’s  shop,  and  buy  five  thorn 
sand  double  Gloucester  cheeses  at  fourpence-halfpenny  each, 
present  payment” — at  which  I  see  Miss  Murdstone  secretly 
overjoyed.  I  pore  over  these  cheeses  without  any  result  or  en¬ 
lightenment  until  dinner-time,  when,  having  made  a  mulatto  of 
myself  by  getting  the  dirt  of  the  slate  into  the  pores  of  my  skin, 
I  have  a  slice  of  bread  to  help  me  out  with  the  cheeses,  and  am 
considered  in  disgrace  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


ONE  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  parlor  with  my  books, 
I  found  my  mother  looking  anxious,  Miss  Murdstone 
looking  firm,  and  Mr.  Murdstone  binding  something  round  the 
bottom  of  a  cane — a  lithe  and  limber  cane,  which  he  left  off 
binding  when  I  came  in,  and  poised  and  switched  in  the  air. 

“  I  tell  you,  Clara,”  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  “  I  have  been  often 
flogged  myself.” 

“  To  be  sure  ;  of  course,”  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

“  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,”  faltered  my  mother,  meekly. 
“  But — but  do  you  think  it  did  Edward  good  ?” 

“  Do  you  think  it  did  Edward  harm,  Clara  ?  ”  asked  Mr. 
Murdstone,  gravely. 

“  That’s  the  point,”  said  his  sister. 

To  this  my  mother  returned,  “  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,”  and 
said  no  more. 

I  felt  apprehensive  that  I  was  personally  interested  in  this 
dialogue,  and  sought  Mr.  Murdstone’ s  eye  as  it  lighted  on 
mine. 

“  Now,  David,”  he  said — and  I  saw  that  cast  again  as  he 
said  it — “  you  must  be  far  more  careful  to-day  than  usual.” 
He  gave  the  cane  another  poise,  and  another  switch  ;  and  hav¬ 
ing  finished  his  preparation  of  it,  laid  it  down  beside  him,  with 
an  impressive  look,  and  took  up  his  book. 

This  was  a  good  freshener  to  my  presence  of  mind,  as  a  be¬ 
ginning.  I  felt  the  words  of  my  lessons  slipping  off,  not  one 
by  one,  or  line  by  line,  but  by  the  entire  page  ;  I  tried  to  lay 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I03 


hold  of  them  ;  but  they  seemed,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  to  have 
put  skates  on,  and  to  skim  away  from  me  with  a  smoothness 
there  was  no  checking. 

We  began  badly,  and  went  on  worse.  I  had  come  in  with 
an  idea  of  distinguishing  myself  rather,  conceiving  that  I  was 
Ter y  well  prepared  ;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  quite  a  mistake. 
Book  after  book  was  added  to  the  heap  of  failures,  Miss  Murd- 
stone  being  firmly  watchful  of  us  all  the  time.  And  when  we 
came  at  last  to  the  five  thousand  cheeses  (canes  he  made  it 
that  day,  I  remember),  my  mother  burst  out  crying. 

“  Clara !  ”  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  voice. 

“  I  am  not  quite  well,  my  dear  Jane,  I  think,'’  said  my 
mother. 

I  saw  him  wink,  solemnly,  at  his  sister,  as  he  rose  and  said, 
taking  up  the  cane  : 

“  Why,  Jane,  we  can  hardly  expect  Clara  to  bear,  with  per¬ 
fect  firmness,  the  worry  and  torment  that  David  has  occasioned 
her  to-day.  That  would  be  stoical.  Clara  is  greatly  strength¬ 
ened  and  improved,  but  we  can  hardly  expect  so  much  from 
her.  David,  you  and  I  will  go  upstairs,  boy.” 

As  he  took  me  out  at  the  door,  my  mother  ran  towards  us. 
Miss  Murdstone  said,  “  Clara  !  are  you  a  perfect  fool  ?  ”  and 
interfered.  I  saw  my  mother  stop  her  ears  then,  and  I  heard 
her  crying. 

He  walked  me  up  to  my  room  slowly  and  gravely — I  am 
certain  he  had  a  delight  in  that  formal  parade  of  executing  jus¬ 
tice — and  when  we  got  there,  suddenly  twisted  my  head  under 
his  arm. 

“  Mr.  Murdstone  !  Sir  !  ”  I  cried  to  him.  “  Don’t  !  Pray 
don’t  beat  me  !  I  have  tried  to  learn,  sir,  but  I  can’t  learn 
while  you  and  Miss  Murdstone  are  by.  I  can’t  indeed  !  ”  . 

“Can’t  you,  indeed,  David?  ”  he  said.  “We’ll  try  that.” 

He  had  my  head  as  in  a  vice,  but  I  twined  round  him  some¬ 
how,  and  stopped  him  for  a  moment,  entreating  him  not  to 
beat  me.  It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  stopped  him,  for  he 
cut  me  heavily  an  instant  afterwards,  and  in  the  same  instant  I 


io4 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


caught  the  hand  with  which  he  held  me  in  my  mouth,  between 
my  teeth,  and  bit  it  through.  It  sets  my  teeth  on  edge  to 
think  of  it. 

He  beat  me  then,  as  if  he  would  beat  me  to  death.  Above 
all  the  noise  we  made,  I  heard  them  running  up  the  stairs,  and 
crying  out — I  heard  my  mother  crying  out — and  Peggotty. 
Then  he  was  gone ;  and  the  door  was  locked  outside ;  and  I 
was  lying,  fevered  and  hot,  and  torn,  and  sore,  and  raging  in 
my  puny  way,  upon  the  floor. 

MR.  MELL  having  left  me  while  he  took  his  irreparable 
boots  upstairs,  I  went  softly  to  the  upper  end  of  the 
room,  observing  all  this  as  I  crept  along.  Suddenly  I  came 
upon  a  pasteboard  placard,  beautifully  written,  which  was  lying 
on  the  desk,  and  bore  these  words  :  “  Take  care  of  him.  He 
bites.” 

I  got  upon  the  desk  immediately,  apprehensive  of  at  least  a 
great  dog  underneath.  But,  though  I  looked  all  round  with 
anxious  ey$ s,  I  could  see  nothing  of  him.  I  was  still  engaged 
in  peering  about  when  Mr.  Mell  came  back,  and  asked  me 
what  I  did  up  there  ? 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  says  I,  “if  you  please,  Pm  looking 
for  the  dog.” 

“  Dog  ?  ”  says  he.  “  What  dog  ?  ” 

“  Isn’t  it  a  dog,  sir  ?  ” 

“Isn’t  what  a  dog  ? ” 

That’s  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir ;  that  bites  ?  ” 

“No,  Copperfield,”  says  he,  gravely,  “that’s  not  a  dog. 
That’s  a  boy.  My  instructions  are,  Copperfield,  to  put  this 
placard  on  your  back  ;  I  am  sorry  to  make  such  a  beginning 
with  you,  but  I  must  do  it.” 

With  that  he  took  me  down,  and  tied  the  placard,  which  was 
neatly  constructed  for  the  purpose,  on  my  shoulders  like  a 
knapsack  ;  and  wherever  I  went  afterwards,  I  had  the  conso¬ 
lation  of  carrying  it. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


105 

|  \  O  you  recollect  the  date,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  looking  ear- 

JL/  nestly  at  me,  and  taking  up  his  pen  to  note  it  down, 
“  when  King  Charles  the  First  had  his  head  cut  off?” 

I  said  I  believed  it  happened  in  the  year  sixteen  hundred 
and  forty-nine. 

“Well,”  returned  Mr.  Dick,  scratching  his  ear  with  his  pen, 
and  looking  dubiously  at  me.  “So  the  books  say;  but  I 
don’t  see  how  that  can  be.  Because,  if  it  was  so  long  ago, 
how  could  the  people  about  him  have  made  that  mistake  of 
putting  some  of  the  trouble  out  of  his  head,  after  it  was  taken 
off,  into  mine  ?  ” 

I  was  very  much  surprised  by  the  inquiry,  but  could  give  no 
information  on  this  point. 

“It’s  very  strange,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  a  despondent  look 
upon  his  papers,  and  with  his  hand  among  his  hair  again, 
“  that  I  never  can  get  that  quite  right.  I  never  can  make 
that  perfectly  clear.  But  no  matter,  no  matter !  ”  he  said 
cheerfully,  and  rousing  himself,  “  there’s  time  enough !  My 
compliments  to  Miss  Trotwood ;  I  am  getting  on  very  well 
indeed.” 

6  6 ROT  WOOD,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  air  of  mystery, 
1  after  imparting  this  confidence  to  me,  one  Wednesday ; 
“who’s  the  man  that  hides  near  our  house  and  frightens  her?” 

“  Frightens  my  aunt,  sir  ?  ” 

Mr.  Dick  nodded.  “  I  thought  nothing  would  have  fright¬ 
ened  her,”  he  said,  “for  she’s — ”  here  he  whispered  softly, 
“  don’t  mention  it — the  wisest  and  most  wonderful  of  women.” 
Having  said  which,  he  drew  back,  to  observe  the  effect  which 
’this  description  of  her  made  upon  me. 

“The  first  time  he  came,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  “was — let  me  see 
— sixteen  hundred  and  forty-nine  was  the  date  of  King 
Charles’s  execution.  I  think  you  said  sixteen  hundred  and 
forty-nine  ?  ” 

“Yes,  sir.” 


io6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  I  don’t  know  how  it  can  be,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  sorely  puzzled 
and  shaking  his  head.  “  I  don’t  think  I  am  as  old  at  that.” 

“  Was  it  in  that  year  that  the  man  appeared,  sir?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Why,  really,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  “  I  don’t  see  how  it  can  have 
been  in  that  year,  Trotwood.  Did  you  get  that  date  out  of 
history  ?  ” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“I  suppose  history  never  lies,  does  it?”  said  Mr.  Dick, 
with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

“  Oh  dear,  no,  sir  !  ”  I  replied,  most  decisively.  I  was  in¬ 
genuous  and  young,  and  I  thought  so. 

“I  can’t  make  it  out,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  shaking  his  head. 
“There’s  something  wrong,  somewhere.  However,  it  was 
very  soon  after  the  mistake  was  made  of  putting  some  of  the 
trouble  out  of  King  Charles’s  head  into  my  head,  that  the  man 
first  came.  I  was  walking  out  with  Miss  Trotwood  after  tea, 
just  at  dark,  and-there  he  was,  close  to  our  house.” 

“  Walking  about  ?  ”  I  inquired. 

“Walking  about?”  repeated  Mr.  Dick.  “  Let  me  see.  I 
must  recollect  a  bit.  N — no,  no  ;  he  was  not  walking  about.” 

I  asked,  as  the  shortest  way  to  get  at  it,  what  he  was  doing. 

“  Well,  he  wasn’t  there  at  all,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  “  until  he 
came  up  behind  her,  and  whispered.  Then  she  turned  round 
and  fainted,  and  I  stood  still  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  walked 
away ;  but  that  he  should  have  been  hiding  ever  since  (in  the 
ground  or  somewhere),  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  !  ” 

\ 

THE  shade  of  a  young  butcher  rises,  like  the  apparition  of 
an  armed  head  in  Macbeth.  Who  is  this  young  butcher  ? 
He  is  the  terror  of  the  youth  of  Canterbury.  There  is  a  vague 
belief  abroad,  that  the  beef  suet  with  which  he  anoints  his  hair 
gives  him  unnatural  strength,  and  that  he  is  a  match  for  a  man. 
He  is  a  broad-faced,  bull-necked  young  butcher,  with  rough  red 
cheeks,  an  ill-conditioned  mind,  and  an  injurious  tongue.  His 
main  use  of  this  tongue  is,  to  disparage  Dr.  Strong’s  young 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


107 


gentlemen.  He  says,  publicly,  that  if  they  want  anything  he’ll 
give  it  ’em.  He  names  individuals  among  them  (myself  in¬ 
cluded),  whom  he  could  undertake  to  settle  with  one  hand,  and 
the  other  tied  behind  him.  He  waylays  the  smaller  boys  to 
punch  their  unprotected  heads,  and  calls  challenges  after  me 
in  the  open  streets.  For  these  sufficient  reasons  I  resolve  to 
fight  the  butcher. 

It  is  a  summer  evening,  down  in  a  green  hollow,  at  the  cor¬ 
ner  of  a  wall.  I  meet  the  butcher  by  appointment.  I  am  at¬ 
tended  by  a  select  body  of  our  boys  ;  the  butcher,  by  two  other 
butchers,  a  young  publican,  and  a  sweep.  The  preliminaries 
are  adjusted,  and  the  butcher  and  myself  stand  face  to  face.  In 
a  moment  the  butcher  lights  ten  thousand  candles  out  of  my  left 
eyebrow.  In  another  moment,  I  don’t  know  where  the  wall  is, 
or  where  I  am,  or  where  anybody  is.  I  hardly  know  which  is 
myself  and  which  the  butcher,  we  are  always  in  such  a  tangle 
and  tussle,  knocking  about  the  trodden  grass.  Sometimes  I 
see  the  butcher,  bloody  but  confident ;  sometimes  I  see 
nothing,  and  sit  gasping  on  my  second’s  knee  ;  sometimes 
I  go  in  at  the  butcher  madly,  and  cut  my  knuckles  open 
against  his  face,  without  appearing  to  discompose  him  at  all. 
At  last  I  awake,  very  queer  about  the  head,  as  from  a  giddy 
sleep,  and  see  the  butcher  walking  off,  congratulated  by  the 
two  other  butchers  and  the  sweep  and  publican,  and  putting 
on  his  coat  as  he  goes ;  from  which  I  augur,  justly,  that  the 
victory  is  his. 

UTT  J ELL,  well!”  she  said,  smiting  her  small  knees,  and 
V  V  rising,  “this  is  not  business.  Come,  Steerforth,  let’s 
explore  the  polar  regions,  and  have  it  over.” 

She  then  selected  two  or  three  of  the  little  instruments,-  and 
a  little  bottle,  and  asked  (to  my  surprise)  if  the  table  would 
bear.  On  Steerforth’s  replying  in  the  affirmative,  she  pushed 
a  chair  against  it,  and  begging  the  assistance  of  my  hand, 
mounted  up,  pretty  nimbly,  to  the  top,  as  if  it  were  a  stage. 


Io8  BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 

“  If  either  of  you  saw  my  ankles,”  she  said,  when  she  was 
safely  elevated,  “  say  so,  and  I’ll  go  home  and  destroy  myself.” 

“/did  not,”  said  Steerforth. 

“  /  did  not,”  said  I. 

“  Well,  then,”  cried  Miss  Mowcher,  “  I’ll  consent  to  live. 
Now,  ducky,  ducky,  ducky,  come  to  Mrs.  Bond  and  be  killed.” 

This  was  an  invocation  to  Steerforth  to  place  himself  under 
her  hands ;  who,  accordingly,  sat  himself  down,  with  his  back 
to  the  table,  and  his  laughing  face  towards  me,  and  submitted 
his  head  to  her  inspection,  evidently  for  no  other  purpose  than 
our  entertainment.  To  see  Miss  Mowcher  standing  over  him, 
looking  at  his  rich  profusion  of  brown  hair  through  a  large 
round  magnifying  glass,  which  she  took  out  of  her  pocket,  was 
a  most  amazing  spectacle. 

SOMEBODY  was  leaning  out  of  my  bedroom  window  re¬ 
freshing  his  forehead  against  the  cool  stone  of  the  parapet, 
and  feeling  the  air  upon  his  face.  It  was  myself.  I  was  ad¬ 
dressing  myself  as  “  Copperfield,”  and  saying,  “Why  did  you 
try  to  smoke  ?  You  might  have  known  you  couldn’t  do  it.” 
Now,  somebody  was  unsteadily  contemplating  his  features  in  the 
looking-glass.  That  was  I  too.  I  was  very  pale  in  the  look¬ 
ing-glass  ;  my  eyes  had  a  vacant  appearance ;  and  my  hair — 
only  my  hair,  nothing  else — looked  drunk. 

Somebody  said  to  me,  “  Let  us  go  to  the  theatre,  Copper- 
field  !  ”  There  was  no  bedroom  before  me,  but  again  the 
jingling  table  covered  with  glasses ;  the  lamp  ;  Grainger  on  my 
right  hand,  Markham  on  my  left,  and  Steerforth  opposite — all 
sitting  in  a  mist,  and  a  long  way  off.  The  theatre  1  To  be 
sure.  The  very  thing.  Come  along  !  But  they  must  excuse 
me  if  I  saw  everybody  out  first,  and  turned  the  lamp  off — in 
case  of  fire. 

Owing  to  some  confusion  in  the  dark,  the  door  was  gone. 
I  was  feeling  for  it  in  the  window-curtains,  when  Steerforth, 
laughing,  took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  out.  We  went 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I09 

downstairs,  one  behind  another.  Near  the  bottom,  somebody 
fell  and  rolled  down.  Somebody  else  said  it  was  Copperfield. 
I  was  angry  at  that  false  report,  until  finding  myself  on  my 
back  in  the  passage,  I  began  to  think  there  might  be  some 
foundation  for  it. 

A  very  foggy  night,  with  great  rings  round  the  lamps  in  the 
streets  !  There  was  an  indistinct  talk  of  its  being  wet.  I  con¬ 
sidered  it  frosty.  Steerforth  dusted  me  under  a  lamp-post,  and 
put  my  hat  into  shape,  which  somebody  produced  from  some¬ 
where  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  for  I  hadn’t  had  it  on 
before.  Steerforth  then  said,  “  You  are  all  right,  Copperfield, 
are  you  not  ?”  and  I  told  him,  “  Neverberrer.” 

A  man,  sitting  in  a  pigeon-hole  place,  looked  out  of  the  fog, 
and  took  money  from  somebody,  inquiring  if  I  was  one  of  the 
gentlemen  paid  for,  and  appearing  rather  doubtful  (as  I  re¬ 
member  in  the  glimpse  I  had  of  him)  whether  to  take  the 
money  for  me  or  not.  Shortly  afterwards,  we  were  very  high  up 
in  a  very  hot  theatre,  looking  down  into  a  large  pit,  that  seemed 
to  me  to  smoke,  the  people  with  whom  it  was  crammed  were  so 
indistinct.  There  was  a  great  stage,  too,  looking  very  clean 
and  smooth  after  the  streets ;  and  there  were  people  upon  it, 
talking  about  something  or  other,  but  not  at  all  intelligibly. 
There  was  an  abundance  of  bright  lights,  and  there  was  music, 
and  there  were  ladies  down  in  the  boxes,  and  I  don’t  know 
what  more.  The  whole  building  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were 
learning  to  swim  ;  it  conducted  itself  in  such  an  unaccountable 
manner,  when  I  tried  to  steady  it. 

On  somebody’s  motion,  we  resolved  to  go  downstairs  to 
the  dress-boxes,  where  the  ladies  were.  A  gentleman  loung¬ 
ing,  full-dressed,  on  a  sofa,  with  an  opera-glass  in  his  hand, 
passed  before  my  view,  and  also  my  own  figure  at  full  length 
in  a  glass.  Then  I  was  being  ushered  into  one  of  these 
boxes,  and  found  myself  saying  something  as  I  sat  down,  and 
people  about  me  crying  “  Silence  !  ”  to  somebody,  and 
ladies  casting  indignant  glances  at  me,  and — what !  yes  ! — 
Agnes,  sitting  on  the  seat  before  me,  in  the  same  box,  with  a 


I  IO 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


lady  and  gentleman  beside  her,  whom  I  didn’t  know.  I  see 
her  face  now  better  than  I  did  then,  I  dare  say,  with  its  indeli¬ 
ble  look  of  regret  and  wonder  turned  upon  me. 

“  Agnes  !  ”  I  said  thickly,  “  Lorblessmer  !  Agnes  !  ” 

“  Hush !  Pray  !  ”  she  answered,  I  could  not  conceive  why. 
“You  disturb  the  company.  Look  at  the  stage  !  ” 

I  tried,  on  her  injunction,  to  fix  it,  and  to  hear  something  of 
what  was  going  on  there,  but  quite  in  vain.  I  looked  at  her 
again  by  and  by,  and  saw  her  shrink  into  her  corner,  and  put 
her  gloved  hand  to  her  forehead. 

“  Agnes  !  ”  I  said.  “  I’mafraidyou’renorwell.” 

“  Yes,  yes.  Do  not  mind  me,  Trotwood,”  she  returned. 
“  Listen  !  Are  you  going  away  soon  ?  ” 

“  Amigoarawaysoo  ?  ”  I  repeated. 

“  Yes.” 

I  had  a  stupid  intention  of  replying  that  I  was  going  to 
wait,  to  hand  her  downstairs.  I  suppose  I  expressed  it  some¬ 
how  ;  for,  after  she  had  looked  at  me  attentively  for  a  little 
while,  she  appeared  to  understand,  and  replied  in  a  low  tone  : 

“  I  know  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you,  if  I  tell  you  I  am  very 
earnest  in  it.  Go  away  now,  Trotwood,  for  my  sake,  and  ask 
your  friends  to  take  you  home'.” 


nnHE  leg  of  mutton  came  up  very  red  within,  and  very  pale 
-iL  without :  besides  having  a  foreign  substance  of  a  gritty 
nature  sprinkled  over  it,  as  if  it  had  had  a  fall  into  the  ashes  of 
that  remarkable  kitchen  fire-place.  But  we  were  not  in  a  con¬ 
dition  to  judge  of  this  fact  from  the  appearance  of  the  gravy, 
forasmuch  as  the  “young  gal”  had  dropped  it  all  upon  the 
stairs— where  it  remained,  by  the  by,  in  a  long  train, 
until  it  was  worn  out.  The  pigeon-pie  was  not  bad,  but  it  was 
a  delusive  pie  :  the  crust  being  like  a  disappointed  head, 
phrenologically  speaking :  full  of  lumps  and  bumps,  with  noth¬ 
ing  particular  underneath.  In  short,  the  banquet  was  such  a 
failure  that  I  should  have  been  quite  unhappy — about  the 


PECULIAR  I  NCI  DEL  CES. 


Ill 


failure,  I  mean,  for  I  was  always  unhappy  about  Dora — if  I 
had  not  been  relieved  by  the  great  good-humor  of  my  com¬ 
pany,  and  by  a  bright  suggestion  from  Mr.  Micawber. 

^  T)UT  I  haven’t  got  any  strength  at  all,”  said  Dora,  shak- 
'  ing  her  curls.  “  Have  I,  Jip  ?  Oh,  do  kiss  Jip,  and 
be  agreeable!” 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  kissing  Jip,  when  she  held  him  up 
to  me  for  that  purpose,  putting  her  own  bright,  rosy  little 
mouth  into  kissing  form,  as  she  directed  the  operation,  which 
she  insisted  should  be  performed  symmetrically,  on  the  centre 
of  his  nose.  I  did  as  she  bade  me— rewarding  myself  after¬ 
wards  for  my  obedience — and  she  charmed  me  out  of  my 
graver  character  for  I  don’t  know  how  long. 


FROM  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

H^HE  service  being  concluded,  Sir  Leicester  gave  his  arm 
-A-  with  much  taste  and  gallantry  to  Lady  Dedlock — -though 
he  was  obliged  to  walk  by  the  help  of  a  thick  stick — and  escorted 
her  out  of  church  to  the  pony  carriage  in  which  they  had  come,  i 
The  servants  then  dispersed,  and  so  did  the  congregation  ; 
whom  Sir  Leicester  had  contemplated  all  along  (Mr.  Skimpole 
said  to  Mr.  Boy  thorn’s  infinite  delight),  as  if  he  were  a  consid¬ 
erable  landed  proprietor  in  heaven. 

“  He  believes  he  is  !  ”  said  Mr.  Boythorn.  “  He  firmly 
believes  it.  So  did  his  father,  and  his  grandfather,  and  his 
great-grandfather !  ” 

“  Do  you  know,”  pursued  Mr.  Skimpole,  very  unexpectedly 
to  Mr.  Boythorn,  “it’s  agreeable  to  me  to  see  a  man  of  that 
sort.” 

“  Is  it  !  ”  said  Mr.  Boythorn. 

“  Say  that  he  wants  to  patronize  me,”  pursued  Mr.  Skimpole. 

“  Very  well !  I  don’t  object.” 


I  12 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“/  do,”  said  Mr.  Boythorn,  with  great  vigor. 

“  Do  you  really  ?”  returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  in  his  easy  light 
vein.  “But  that’s  taking  trouble,  surely.  And  why  should 
you  take  trouble  ?  Here  am  I,  content  to  receive  things 
childishly,  as  they  fall  out :  and  I  never  take  trouble  !  I  come 
down  here,  for  instance,  and  I  find  a  mighty  potentate,  exact¬ 
ing  homage.  Very  well !  I  say  ‘  Mighty  potentate,  here  is 
my  homage  !  It’s  easier  to  give  it  than  to  withhold  it.  Here 
it  is.  If  you  have  anything  of  an  agreeable  nature  to  show  me, 
I  shall  be  happy  to  see  it;  if  you  have  anything-  of  an  agree* 
able  nature  to  give  me,  I  shall  be  happy  to  accept  it.’  Mighty 
potentate  replies  in  effect,  1  This  is  a  sensible  fellow.  I  find 
him  accord  with  my  digestion  and  my  bilious  system.  He 
doesn’t  impose  upon  me  the  necessity  of  rolling  myself  up  like 
a  hedgehog  with  my  points  outward.  I  expand,  I  open,  I  turn 
my  silver  lining  outward  like  Milton’s  cloud,  and  it’s  more 
agreeable  to  both  of  us.’  That’s  my  view  of  such  things: 
speaking  as,  a  child  !  ” 

“  But  suppose  you  went  down  somewhere  else  to-morrow,” 
said  Mr.  Boythorn,  “  where  there  was  the  opposite  of  that  fellow 
— or  of  this  fellow — how  then  ?  ” 

“How  then?”  said  Air.  Skimpole,  with  an  appearance  of 
the  utmost  simplicity  and  candor.  “Just  the  same  then!  I 
should  say,  ‘  My  esteemed  Boythorn  ’ — to  make  you  the  personi¬ 
fication  of  our  imaginary  friend — 1  my  esteemed  Boythorn,  you 
object  to  the  mighty  potentate  ?  Very  good.  So  do  I.  I 
take  it  that  my  business  in  the  social  system  is  to  be  agreeable. 
I  take  it  that  everybody’s  business  in  the  social  system  is  to  be 
agreeable.  It’s  a  system  of  harmony,  in  short.  Therefore  if 
you  object,  I  object.  Now,  excellent  Boythorn,  let  us  go  to 
dinner !  ” 

“  But  excellent  Boythorn  might  say,”  returned  our  host, 
swelling  and  growing  very  red,  “  I’ll  be — ” 

“  I  understand,”  said  Mr.  Skimpole.  “  Very  likely  he 
would.” 

“ — if  I  will  go  to  dinner  !  ”  cried  Mr.  Boythorn,  in  a  violent 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


burst,  and  stopping  to  strike  his  stick  upon  the  ground.  “  And 
he  would  probably  add,  4  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  principle,  Mr. 
Harold  Skimpole  ?  ” 

“  To  which  Harold  Skimpole  would  reply,  you  know,”  he 
returned  in  his  gayest  manner,  and  with  his  most  ingenuous 
smile,  “Upon  my  life  I  have  not  the  least  idea!  I  don’t 
know  what  it  is  you  call  by  that  name,  or  where  it  is,  or  who 
possesses  it.  If  you  possess  it,  and  find  it  comfortable,  I  am 
quite  delighted,  and  congratulate  you  heartily.  But  I  know 
nothing  about  it,  I  assure  you,  for  I  am  a  mere  child,  and  I  lay 
no  claim  to  it,  and  I  don’t  want  it !  ’  So  you  see,  excellent 
Boythorn  and  I  would  go  to  dinner  after  all !  ” 

^  A  /T^  dear  father,  may  I  beg  you  to  prepare  your  mind 
for  what  I  am  going  to  say  !  ” 

“  Good  Heaven  !  ”  exclaimed  the  model,  pale  and  aghast,  as 
Prince  and  Caddy,  hand  in  hand,  bent  down  before  him. 
“  What  is  this  ?  Is  this  lunacy  !  Or  what  is  this  ?  ” 

“Father,”  returned  Prince,  with  great  submission,  “I  love 
this  young  lady,  and  we  are  engaged.” 

“Engaged!”  cried  Mr.  Turveydrop,  reclining  on  the  sofa, 
and  shutting  out  the  sight  with  his  hand.  “  An  arrow  launched 
at  my  brain,  by  my  own  child  !  ” 

“We  have  been  engaged  for  some  time,  father,”  faltered 
Prince  ;  “  and  Miss  Summerson,  hearing  of  it,  advised  that  we 
should  declare  the  fact  to  you,  and  was  so  very  kind  as  to  at¬ 
tend  on  the  present  occasion.  Miss  Jellyby  is  a  young  lady 
who  deeply  respects  you,  father.” 

Mr.  Turveydrop  uttered  a  groan. 

“  No,  pray  don’t.  Pray  don’t,  father,”  urged  his  son. 
“  Miss  Jellyby  is  a  young  lady  who  deeply  respects  you,  and 
our  first  desire  is  to  consider  your  comfort.” 

Mr.  Turveydrop  sobbed. 

“  No,  pray  don’t,  father  !  ”  cried  his  son. 

“  Boy,”  said  Mr.  Turveydrop,  “  it  is  well  that  your  sainted 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


1 14 

mother  is  spared  this  pang.  Strike  deep,  and  spare  not. 
Strike  home,  sir,  strike  home  !  ” 

“  Pray,  don’t  say  so,  father,”  implored  Prince,  in  tears.  “  It 
goes  to  my  heart,  I  do  assure  you,  father,  that  our  first  wish 
and  intention  is  to  consider  your  comfort.  Caroline  and  I  do 
not  forget  our  duty — what  is  my  duty  is  Caroline’s,  as  we  have 
often  said  together — and,  with  your  approval  and  consent, 
father,  we  will  devote  ourselves  to  making  your  life  agreeable.” 

u  Strike  home,”  murmured  Mr.  Turveydrop.  “  Strike 
home  !  ” 

But  he  seemed  to  listen,  I  thought,  too. 

“  My  dear  father,”  returned  Prince,  “  we  well  know  what 
little  comforts  you  are  accustomed  to,  and  have  a  right  to  ;  and 
it  will  always  be  our  study  and  our  pride  to  provide  those  be¬ 
fore  anything.  If  you  will  bless  us  with  your  approval  and 
consent,  father,  we  shall  not  think  of  being  married  until  it  is 
quite  agreeable  to  you  ;  and  when  we  are  married,  we  shall 
always  make  you — of  course — our  first  consideration.  You 
must  ever  be  the  Head  and  Master  here,  father ;  and  we  feel 
how  truly  unnatural  it  would  be  in  us,  if  we  failed  to  know  it, 
or  if  we  failed  to  exert  ourselves  in  every  possible  way  to  please 
you.” 

Mr.  Turveydrop  underwent  a  severe  internal  struggle,  and 
came  upright  on  the  sofa  again,  with  his  cheeks  puffing  over 
his  stiff  cravat ;  a  perfect  model  of  parental  deportment. 

u  My  son  !  ”  said  Mr.  Turveydrop.  “  My  children  !  I  can¬ 
not  resist  your  prayer.  Be  happy  !  ” 

His  benignity,  as  he  raised  his  future  daughter-in-law  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  his  son  (who  kissed  it  with  affection¬ 
ate  respect  and  gratitude),  was  the  most  confusing  sight  I  ever 
saw. 

“  My  children,”  said  Mr.  Turveydrop,  paternally  encircling 
Caddy  with  his  left  arm  as  she  sat  beside  him,  and  putting  his 
right  hand  gracefully  on  his  hip.  “  My  son  and  daughter,  your 
happiness  shall  be  my  care.  I  will  watch  over  you.  You 
shall  always  live  with  me  ;  ”  meaning,  of  course,  I  will  always 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


115 

live  with  you;  “this  house  is  henceforth  as  much  yours  as 
mine  ;  consider  it  your  home.  May  you  long  live  to  share  it 
with  me  !  ” 

The  power  of  his  deportment  was  such,  that  they  really  were 
as  much  overcome  with  thankfulness  as  if,  instead  of  quarter¬ 
ing  himself  upon  them  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  he  were  making 
some  munificent  sacrifice  in  their  favor. 

“For  myself,  my  children,”  said  Mr.  Turveydrop,  “I  am 
falling  into  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf,  and  it  is  impossible  to  say 
how  long  the  last  feeble  traces  of  gentlemanly  deportment  may 
linger  in  this  weaving  and  spinning  age.  But,  so  long,  I  will 
do  my  duty  to  society,  and  will  show  myself,  as  usual,  about 
town.  My  wants  are  few  and  simple.  My  little  apartment 
here,  my  few  essentials  for  the  toilet,  my  frugal  morning  meal, 
and  my  little  dinner,  will  suffice.  I  charge  your  dutiful  affec¬ 
tion  with  the  supply  of  these  requirements,  and  I  charge 'my¬ 
self  with  all  the  rest.” 

They  were  overpowered  afresh  by  his  uncommon  generosity. 


THINKING  that  the  display  of  Caddy’s  wardrobe  would 
be  the  best  means  of  approaching  the  subject,  I  invited 
Mrs.  Jellyby  to  come  and  look  at  it  spread  out  on  Caddy’s 
bed,  in  the  evening  after  the  unwholesome  boy  was  gone. 

“  My  dear  Miss  Summerson,”  said  she,  rising  from  her  desk, 
with  her  usual  sweetness  of  temper,  “  these  are  really  ridiculous 
preparations,  though  your  assisting  them  is  a  proof  of  your 
kindness.  There  is  something  so  inexpressibly  absurd  to  me, 
in  the  idea  of  Caddy  being  married !  O  Caddy,  you  silly,  silly, 
silly  puss  !  ” 

She  came  upstairs  with  us  notwithstanding,  and  looked  at  • 
the  clothes  in  her  customary  far-off  manner.  They  suggested 
one  distinct  idea  to  her  ;  for  she  said  with  her  placid  smile,  and 
shaking  her  head,  “  My  good  Miss  Summerson,  at  half  the  cost, 
this  weak  child  might  have  been  equipped  for  Africa  !  ” 


1 1 6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


MR.  GUPPY  saw  us  to  the  door  with  the  air  of  one  who 
was  either  imperfectly  awake  or  walking  in  his  sleep  ; 
and  we  left  him  there,  staring. 

But  in  a  minute  he  came  after  us  down  the  street  without 
any  hat,  and  with  his  long  hair  all  blown  about,  and  stopped 
us,  saying  fervently  : 

“  Miss  Summerson,  upon  my  honor  and  3oul,  you  may  de¬ 
pend  upon  me  !  ” 

“  I  do,”  said  I,  “  quite  confidently.” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,”  said  Mr.  Guppy,  going  with  one 
leg  and  staying  with  the  other,  “  but  this  lady  being  present — 
your  own  witness — it  might  be  a  satisfaction  to  your  mind 
(which  I  .should  wish  to  set  at  rest)  if  you  were  to  repeat  those 
admissions.” 

“  Well,  Caddy,”  said  I,  turning  to  her,  “  perhaps  you  will 
not  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  that  there  never 
has  been  any  engagement —  ” 

“No  proposal  or  promise  of  marriage  whatsoever,”  sug¬ 
gested  Mr.  Guppy. 

“  No  proposal  or  promise  of  marriage  whatsoever,”  said  I, 
“between  this  gentleman — ” 

“William  Guppy,  of  Penton  Place,  Pentonville,  in  the  county 
of  Middlesex,”  he  murmured. 

“  Between  this  gentleman,  Mr.  William  Guppy,  of  Penton 
Place,  Pentonville,  in  the  county  of  Middlesex,  and  myself.” 

“Thank  you,  miss,”  said  Mr.  Guppy.  “Very  full — er — 
excuse  me — lady’s  name,  Christian  and  surname  both  ?” 

I  gave  them. 

“Married  woman,  I  believe  ?”  said  Mr.  Guppy.  “Married 
woman.  Thank  you.  Formerly  Caroline  Jellyby,  spinster,  then 
of  Thavies  Inn,  within  the  city  of  London,  but  extra  parochial ; 
now  of  Newton  Street,  Oxford  Street.  Much  obliged.” 

He  ran  home  and  came  running  back  again. 

“Touching  that  matter,  you  know,  I  really  and  truly  am 
very  sorry  that  my  arrangements  in  life,  combined  with  circum¬ 
stances  over  which  I  have  no  control,  should  prevent  a  renewal 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES . 


117 

of  what  was  wholly  terminated  some  time  back,”  said  Mr. 
Guppy  to  me,  forlornly  and  despondently,  “  but  it  couldn’t  be. 
Now  could  it,  you  know?  I  only  put  it  to  you.” 

I  replied  it  certainly  could  not.  The  subject  did  not  admit 
of  a  doubt.  He  thanked  me,  and  ran  to  his  mother’s  again — 
and  back  again. 

“  It’s  very  honorable  of  you,  miss,  I  am  sure,”  said  Mr. 
Guppy.  “  If  an  altar  could  be  erected  in  the  bowers  of  friend¬ 
ship — but,  upon  my  soul,  you  may  rely  upon  me  in  every 
respect,  save  and  except  the  tender  passion  only  !  ” 

The  struggle  in  Mr.  Guppy’s  breast,  and  the  numerous  os¬ 
cillations  it  occasioned  him  between  his  mother’s  door  and  us, 
were  sufficiently  conspicuous  in  the  windy  street  (particularly 
as  his  hair  wanted  cutting),  to  make  us  hurry  away.  I  did  so 
with  a  lightened  heart ;  but  when  we  last  looked  back,  Mr. 
Guppy  was  still  oscillating  in  the  same  troubled  state  of  mind. 

66  T~~\ON’T  be  frightened  !”  said  Mr.  Guppy,  looking  in  at 
JL_y  the  coach-window.  “  One  of  the  young  Jellybys 
been  and  got  his  head  through  the  area  railings  !  ” 

“  O  poor  child,”  said  I,  “  let  me  out,  if  you  please  !  ” 

“  Pray  be  careful  of  yourself,  miss.  The  young  Jellybys  are 
always  up  to  something,”  said  Mr.  Guppy. 

I  made  my  way  to  the  poor  child,  who  was  one  of  the  dirtiest 
little  unfortunates  I  ever  saw,  and  found  him  very  hot  and 
frightened,  and  crying  loudly,  fixed  by  the  neck  between  two 
iron  railings,  while  a  milkman  and  a  beadle,  with  the  kindest 
intentions  possible,  were  endeavoring  to  drag  him  back  by  the 
legs,  under  a  general  impression  that  his  skull  was  compressi¬ 
ble  by  those  means.  As  I  found  (after  pacifying  him),  that  he 
was  a  little  boy,  with  a  naturally  large  head,  I  thought  that, 
perhaps,  where  his  head  could  go,  his  body  could  follow,  and 
mentioned  that  the  best  mode  of  extrication  might  be  to  push 
him  forward.  This  was  so  favorably  received  by  the  milkman 
and  beadle,  that  he  would  immediately  have  been  pushed  into 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


the  area,  if  I  had  not  held  his  pinafore,  while  Richard  and  Mr. 
Guppy  ran  down  through  the  kitchen,  to  catch  him  when  he 
should  be  released.  At  last  he  was  happily  got  down  without 
any  accident,  and  then  he  began  to  beat  Mr.  Guppy  with  a 
hoop-stick  in  quite  a  frantic  manner. 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT, 


HE  doctor’s  friend  was  in  the  positive  degree  of  hoarse- 


X  ness,  puffiness,  red-facedness,  all-fours,  tobacco,  dirt,  and 
brandy  ;  the  doctor  in  the  comparative — hoarser,  puffier,  more 
red-faced,  more  all-foury,  tobaccoer,  dirtier,  and  brandier.  The 
doctor  was  amazingly  shabby,  in  a  torn  and  darned  rough- 
weather  sea-jacket,  out  at  elbows,  and  eminently  short  of  but¬ 
tons  (he  had  been  in  his  time  the  experienced  surgeon  carried 
by  a  passenger  ship),  the  dirtiest  white  trousers  conceivable  by 
mortal  man,  carpet  slippers,  and  no  visible  linen.  “  Childbed  ?  ” 
said  the  doctor.  “  I’m  the  boy  !  ”  With  that  the  doctor  took 
a  comb  from  the  chimney-piece,  and  stuck  his  hair  upright — 
which  appeared  to  be  his  way  of  washing  himself — produced  a 
professional  chest  or  case,  of  most  abject  appearance,  from  the 
cupboard  where  his  cup  and  saucer  and  coals  were,  settled  his 
chin  in  the  frowzy  wrapper  round  his  neck,  and  became  a 
ghastly  medical  scarecrow. 

The  doctor  and  the  debtor  ran  downstairs,  leaving  the  turn¬ 
key  to  return  to  the  lock,  and  made  for  the  debtor’s  room.  All 
the  ladies  in  the  prison  had  got  hold  of  the  news,  and  were  in 
the  yard.  Some  of  them  had  already  taken  possession  of  the 
two  children,  and  were  hospitably  carrying  them  off ;  others 
were  offering  loans  of  little  comforts  from  their  own  scanty 
store  ;  others  were  sympathizing  with  the  greatest  volubility. 
The  gentlemen  prisoners,  feeling  themselves  at  a  disadvantage, 
had  for  the  most  part  retired,  not  to  say  sneaked,  to  their 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


1  *9 

rooms  ;  from  the  open  windows  of  which,  some  of  them  now 
complimented  the  doctor  with  whistles  as  he  passed  below, 
while  others,  with  several  stories  between  them,  interchanged 
sarcastic  references  to  the  prevalent  excitement. 

66  T  BEG  your  pardon.  How  shall  I  find  out  ?  ” 

JL  “  Why,  you’ll — you’ll  ask  till  they  tell  you.  Then  you’ll 
memorialize  that  Department  (according  to  regular  forms  which 
you’ll  find  out),  for  leave  to  memorialize  this  Department.  If 
you  get  it  (which  you  may  after  a  time),  that  memorial  must  be 
entered  in  that  Department,  sent  to  be  registered  in  this  De¬ 
partment,  sent  back  to  be  signed  by  that  Department,  sent  back 
to  be  countersigned  by  this  Department,  and  then  it  will  begin 
to  be  regularly  before  that  Department.  You’ll  find  out  when 
the  business  passes  through  each  of  these  stages,  by  asking  at 
both  Departments  till  they  tell  you.” 

“  But  surely  this  is  not  the  way  to  do  the  business,”  Arthur 
Clennam  could  not  help  saying. 

This  airy  young  Barnacle  was  quite  entertained  by  his  sim¬ 
plicity  in  supposing  for  a  moment  that  it  was.  This  light  in 
hand  young  Barnacle  knew  perfectly  that  it  was  not.  This 
touch-and-go  young  Barnacle  had  “  got  up  ”  the  Department  in 
a  private  secretaryship,  that  he  might  be  ready  for  any  little  bit 
of  fat  that  came  to  hand  ;  and  he  fully  understood  the  Depart¬ 
ment  to  be  a  politico-diplomatico  hocus-pocus  piece  of  machin¬ 
ery,  for  the  assistance  of  the  nobs  in  keeping  off  the  snobs. 
The  dashing  young  Barnacle,  in  a  word,  was  likely  to  become  a 
statesman,  and  to  make  a  figure. 

“  When  the  business  is  regularly  before  that  Department, 
whatever  it  is,”  pursued  this  bright  young  Barnacle,  “  then  you 
can  watch  it  from  time  to  time  through  that  Department. 
When  it  comes  regularly  before  this  Department,  then  you 
must  watch  it  from  time  to  time  through  this  Department.  We 
shall  have  to  refer  it  right  and  left ;  and  when  we  refer  it  any¬ 
where,  then  you’ll  have  to  look  it  up.  When  it  comes  back  to 


120 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


us  at  any  time,  then  you  had  better  look  us  up.  When  it  sticks 
anywhere,  you’ll  have  to  try  to  give  it  a  jog.  When  you  write 
to  another  Department  about  it,  and  then  to  this  Department 
about  it,  and  don’t  hear  anything  satisfactory  about  it,  why,  then 
you  had  better — keep  on  writing.”  . 

u  13  OMANCE,  however,”  Flora  went  on,  busily  arranging 

XV  Mr.  F.’s  aunt’s  toast,  “  as  I  openly  said  to  Mr.  F.  when 
he  proposed  to  me  and  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  pro¬ 
posed  seven  times  once  in  a  hackney-coach  once  in  a  boat  once 
in  a  pew  once  on  a  donkey  at  Tunbridge  Wells  and  the  rest  on 
his  knees,  Romance  was  fled  with  the  early  days  of  Arthur  Clen- 
nam,  our  parents  tore  us  asunder  we  became  marble  and  stern 
reality  usurped  the  throne,  Mr  F.  said  very  much  to  his  credit 
that  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  it  and  even  preferred  that  state 
of  things  accordingly  the  word  was  spoken  the  fiat  went  forth 
and  such  is.  life  you  see  my  dear  and  yet  we  do  not  break  but 
bend,  pray  make  a  good  breakfast  while  I  go  in  with  the  tray.” 

She  disappeared,  leaving  Little  Dorrit  to  ponder  over  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  her  scattered  words.  She  soon  came  back  again ;  and 
at  last  began  to  take  her  own  breakfast,  talking  all  the  while. 

T  T  NWILLING,  even  under  this  discomfiture,  to  resign  the 
ingrate  and  leave  her  hopeless,  in  case  of  her  better  dis¬ 
positions  obtaining  the  mastery  over  the  darker  side  of  her  char¬ 
acter,  Mr.  Meagles,  for  six  successive  days,  published  a  dis¬ 
creetly  covert  advertisement  in  the  morning  papers,  to  the  effect 
that  if  a  certain  young  person  who  had  lately  left  home  without 
reflection,  would  at  any  time  apply  at  his  address  at  Twicken¬ 
ham,  everything  would  be  as  it  had  been  before,  and  no  re¬ 
proaches  need  be  apprehended.  The  unexpected  consequences 
of  this  notification,  suggested  to  the  dismayed  Mr.  Meagles  for 
the  first  time  that  some  hundreds  of  young  persons  must  be  leav¬ 
ing  their  homes  without  reflection,  every  day  ;  for  shoals  of  wrong 
young  people  came  down  to  Twickenham,  who,  not  finding 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


121 


themselves  received  with  enthusiasm,  generally  demanded  com¬ 
pensation  by  way  of  damages,  in  addition  to  coach-hire  there 
and  back.  Nor  were  these  the  only  uninvited  clients  whom  the 
advertisement  produced.  The  swarm  of  begging  letter-writers 
who  would  seem  to  be  always  watching  eagerly  for  any  hook, 
however  small,  to  hang  a  letter  upon,  wrote  to  say  that  having 
seen  the  advertisement,  they  were  induced  to  apply  with  confi¬ 
dence  for  various  sums,  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  fifty 
pounds  :  not  because  they  knew  anything  about  the  young 
person,  but  because  they  felt  that  to  part  with  those  donations 
would  greatly  relieve  the  advertiser’s  mind.  Several  projec¬ 
tors,  likewise,  availed  themselves  of  the  same  opportunity  to 
correspond  with  Mr.  Meagles;  as,  for  example,  to  apprise  him 
that  their  attention  having  been  called  to  the  advertisement  by 
a  friend,  they  begged  to  state  that  if  they  should  ever  hear  any¬ 
thing  of  the  young  person,  they  would  not  fail  to  make  it 
known  to  him  immediately,  and  that  in  the  meantime  if  he 
would  oblige  them  with  the  funds  necessary  for  bringing  to  per¬ 
fection  a  certain  entirely  novel  description  of  Pump,  the  hap¬ 
piest  results  would  ensue  to  mankind. 

WITH  those  words  and  a  parting  glance,  Flora  bustled 
out,  leaving  Clennam  under  dreadful  apprehensions 
of  his  terrible  charge. 

The  first  variation  which  manifested  itself  in  Mr.  F.’s  aunt’s 
demeanor  when  she  had  finished  her  piece  of  toast,  was  a  loud 
and  prolonged  sniff.  Finding  it  impossible  to  avoid  construing 
this  demonstration  into  a  defiance  of  himself,  its  gloomy  signifi¬ 
cance  being  unmistakable,  Clennam  looked  plaintively  at  the 
excellent  though  prejudiced  lady  from  whom  it  emanated,  in 
the  hope  that  she  might  be  disarmed  by  a  meek  submission. 

“  None  of  your  eyes  at  me,”  said  Mr.  F.’s  aunt,  shivering 
with  hostility.  “  Take  that.” 

“  That  ”  was  the  crust  of  the  piece  of  toast.  Clennam  ac¬ 
cepted  the  boon  with  a  look  of  gratitude,  and  held  it  in  his 
G 


122 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


hand  under  the  pressure  of  a  little  embarrassment,  which  was 
not  relieved  when  Mr.  F.’s  aunt,  elevating  her  voice  into  a  cry 
of  considerable  power,  exclaimed,  “  He  has  a  proud  stomach, 
this  chap  !  He’s  too  proud  a  chap  to  eat  it !  ”  and  coming  out 
of  her  chair,  shook  her  venerable  list  so  very  close  to  his  nose 
as  to  tickle  the  surface.  But  for  the  timely  return  of  Flora,  to 
find  him  in  this  difficult  situation,  further  consequences  might 
have  ensued.  Flora,  without  the  least  discomposure  or  sur¬ 
prise,  but  congratulating  the  old  lady  in  an  approving  manner 
on  being  “very  lively  to-night,”  handed  her  back  to  her  chair. 

“  He  has  a  proud  stomach,  this  chap,”  said  Mr.  F.’s  relation, 
on  being  reseated.  “  Give  him  a  meal  of  chaff!  ” 

UPUCH  an  inconvenient  staircase,  and  so  many  corner- 
stairs,  Arthur,”  whispered  Flora.  “  would  you  object  to 
putting  your  arm  round  me  under  my  pelerine  ?  ” 

Withn,  sense  of  going  downstairs  in  a  highly  ridiculous  man¬ 
ner,  Clennam  descended  in  the  required  attitude,  and  only  re¬ 
leased  his  fair  burden  at  the  dining-room  door  ;  indeed,  even 
there  she  was  rather  difficult  to  get  rid  of,  remaining  in  his  em¬ 
brace  to  murmur,  “Arthur,  for  mercy’s  sake  don’t  breath  it  to 
papa !  ” 


SO  the  Bride  had  mounted  into  her  handsome  chariot,  inci¬ 
dentally  accompanied  by  the  Bridegroom  ;  and  after  rolling 
for  a  few  minutes  smoothly  over  a  fair  pavement,  had  begun  to 
jolt  through  a  Slough  of  Despond,  and  through  a  long,  long 
avenue  of  wrack  and  ruin.  Other  nuptial  carriages  are  said  to 
have  gone  the  same  road,  before  and  since. 


6  6  TV  T  EVER  to  part,  my  dearest  Arthur ;  never  any  more  until 
i.  the  last !  I  never  was  rich  before,  I  never  was  proud 
before,  I  never  was  happy  before.  I  am  rich  in  being  taken 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I23 


by  you,  I  am  proud  in  having  been  resigned  by  you,  I  am 
happy  in  being  with  you  in  this  prison,  as  I  should  be  happy 
in  coming  back  to  it  with  you,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God, 
and  comforting  and  serving  you  with  all  my  love  and  truth.  I 
am  yours  anywhere,  everywhere  !  I  love  you  dearly  !  I  would 
rather  pass  my  life  here  with  you,  and  go  out  daily,  working  for 
our  bread,  than  I  would  have  the  greatest  fortune  that  ever  was 
told,  and  be  the  greatest  lady  that  ever  was  honored.  O,  if 
poor  papa  may  only  know  how  blest  at  last  my  heart  is,  in  this 
room  where  he  suffered  for  so  many  years  !  ” 

ITH  the  aid  of  its  contents,  a  newspaper,  and  some 


skimming  of  the  cream  of  the  pie-stock,  Flora  got 


through  the  remainder  of  the  day  in  perfect  good-humor ; 
though  occasionally  embarrassed  by  the  consequences  of  an  idle 
rumor  which  circulated  among  the  credulous  infants  of  the 
neighborhood,  to  the  effect  that  an  old  lady  had  sold  herself 
to  the  pie-shop,  to  be  made  up,  and  was  then  sitting  in  the 
pie-shop  parlor,  declining  to  complete  her  contract.  This  at¬ 
tracted  so  many  young  persons  of  both  sexes,  and,  when  the 
shades  of  evening  began  to  fall,  occasioned  so  much  interrup¬ 
tion  to  the  business,  that  the  merchant  became  very  pressing 
in  his  proposals  that  Mr.  F.’s  aunt  should  be  removed.  A  con¬ 
veyance  was  accordingly  brought  to  the  door,  which,  by  the 
joint  efforts  of  the  merchant  and  Flora,  this  remarkable  woman 
was  at  last  induced  to  enter ;  though  not  without  even  then 
putting  her  head  out  of  the  window,  and  demanding  to  have 
him  “  brought  for’ard  ”  for  the  purpose  originally  mentioned. 
As  she  was  observed  at  this  time  to  direct  baleful  glances 
towards  the  Marshalsea,  it  has  been  supposed  that  this  admir¬ 
ably  consistent  female  intended  by  “him,”  Arthur  Clennam. 
This,  however,  is  mere  speculation ;  who  the  person  was,  who, 
for  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  F.’s  aunt’s  mind,  ought  to  have  been 
brought  forward  and  never  was  brought  forward,  will  never  be 
positively  known. 


124 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 


T 


"'HEY  were  not  very  serious  in  their  nature  ;  being  limit¬ 
ed  to  abrasions  on  what  the  eldest  Miss  Pecksniff  called 
“  the  knobby  parts”  of  her  parent’s  anatomy,  such  as  his  knees 
and  elbows,  and  to  the  development  of  an  entirely  new  organ, 
unknown  to  phrenologists,  on  the  back  of  his  head.  These 
injuries  having  been  comforted  externally,  with  patches  of 
pickled  brown  paper,  and  Mr.  Pecksniff  having  been  com¬ 
forted  internally,  with  some  stiff  brandy-and-water,  the  eldest 

• 

Miss  Pecksniff  sat  down  to  make  the  tea,  which  was  all  ready. 


IT  happened  on  the  fourth  evening,  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  walk¬ 
ing,  as  usual,  into  the  bar  of  the  Dragon,  and  finding  no  Mrs. 
Lupin  there,  went  straight  upstairs  :  purposing,  in  the  fervor  of 
his  affectionate  zeal,  to  apply  his  ear  once  more  to  the  key-hole, 
and  quiet  his  mind  by  assuring  himself  that  the  hard-hearted 
patient  was  going  on  well.  It  happened  that  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
coming  softly  upon  the  dark  passage  into  which  a  spiral  ray  of 
light  usually  darted  through  the  same  key-hole,  was  astonished  to 
find  no  such  ray  visible ;  and  it  happened  that  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
when  he  had  felt  his  way  to  the  chamber-door,  stooping  hurriedly 
down  to  ascertain  by  personal  inspection  whether  the  jealousy 
of  the  old  man  had  caused  this  key-hole  to  be  stopped  on  the 
inside,  brought  his  head  into  such  violent  contact  with  another 
head,  that  he  could  not  help  uttering,  in  an  audible  voice,  the 
monosyllable  “  Oh  !  ”  which  was,  as  it  were,  sharply  unscrewed 
and  jerked  out  of  him  by  very  anguish.  It  happened  then,  and 
lastly,  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  found  himself  immediately  collared  by 
something  which  smelt  like  several  damp  umbrellas,  a  barrel  of 
beer,  a  cask  of  warm  brandy-and-water,  and  a  small  parlor-full 
of  stale  tobacco  smoke  mixed  ;  and  was  straightway  led  down¬ 
stairs  into  the  bar  from  which  he  had  lately  come,  where  he 
found  himself  standing  opposite  to,  and  in  the  grasp  of  a  per- 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I25 


fectly  strange  gentleman  of  still  stranger  appearance,  who,  with 
his  disengaged-  hand,  rubbed  his  own  head  very  hard,  and 
looked  at  him.  Pecksniff,  with  an  evil  countenance. 


JINKINS  and  Gander  took  the  rest  upon  themselves,  and 
,  made  him  as  comfortable  as  they  could,  on  the  outside  of 
his  bed  ;  and  when  he  seemed  disposed  to  sleep,  they  left 
him.  But  before  they  had  all  gained  the  bottom  of  the  staircase, 
a  vision  of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  strangely  attired,  was  seen  to  flutter 
on  the  top  landing.  He  desired  to  collect  their  sentiments, 
it  seemed,  upon  the  nature  of  human  life. 

“My  friends,”  cried  Mr.  Pecksniff,  looking  over  the  banis¬ 
ters,  “let  us  improve  our  minds  by  mutual  inquiry  and  discus¬ 
sion.  Let  us  be  moral.  Let  us  contemplate  existence.  Where 
is  Jinkins  ?” 

“  Here,”  cried  that  gentleman.  “  Go  to  bed  again  !  ” 

“To  bed  !”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff.  “  Bed  !  ’Tis  the  voice  of 
the  sluggard,  I  hear  him  complain,  you  have  woke  me  too 
soon,  I  must  slumber  again.’  If  any  young  orphan  will  repeat 
the  remainder  of  that  simple  piece  from  Doctor  Watts’s  collec¬ 
tion,  an  eligible  opportunity  now  offers.” 

Nobody  volunteered. 

“This  is  very  soothing,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  after  a  pause. 
“  Extremely  so.  Cool  and  refreshing ;  particularly  to  the  legs  ! 
The  legs  of  the  human  subject,  my  friends,  are  a  beautiful 
production.  Compare  them  with  wooden  legs,  and  observe 
the  difference  between  the  anatomy  of  nature  and  the  anatomy 
of  art.  Do  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  leaning  over  the 
banisters,  with  an  odd  recollection  of  his  familiar  manner  among 
new  pupils  at  home,  “  that  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  Mrs. 
Todgers’s  notion  of  a  wooden  leg,  if  perfectly  agreeable  to  her¬ 
self!” 

As  it  appeared  impossible  to  entertain  any  reasonable  hopes 
of  him  after  this  speech,  Mr.  Jinkins  and  Mr.  Gander  went 
upstairs  again,  and  once  more  got  him  into  bed.  But  they 


J26 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


had  not  descended  to  the  second  floor  before  he  was  out  again  ; 
nor,  when  they  had  repeated  the  process,  had  they  descended 
the  first  flight,  before  he  was  out  again.  In  a  word,  as  often  as 
he  was  shut  up  in  his  own  room,  he  darted  out  afresh,  charged 
with  some  new  moral  sentiment,  which  he  continually  repeated 
over  the  banisters,  with  extraordinary  relish,  and  an  irrepressible 
desire  for  the  improvement  of  his  fellow-creatures  that  nothing 
could  subdue. 


t 


AMONG  these  sleeping  voyagers  were  Martin,  and  Mark 
Tapley,  who,  rocked  into  a  heavy  drowsiness  b^  the  un¬ 
accustomed  motion,  were  as  insensible  to  the  foul  air  in  which 
they  lay,  as  to  the  uproar  without.  It  was  broad  day  when  the 
latter  awoke  with  a  dim  idea  that  he  was  dreaming  of  having 
gone  to  sleep  in  a  four-post  bedstead  which  had  turned  bottom 
upwards  in  the  course  of  the  night.  There  was  more  reason  in 
this  too,  than  in  the  roasting  of  eggs ;  for  the  first  objects  Mr. 
Tapley  recognized,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  were  his  own  heels 
— looking  down  to  him,  as  he  afterwards  observed,  from  a  nearly 
perpendicular  elevation. 

“  Well,”  said  Mark,  getting  himself  into  a  sitting  posture,  after 
various  ineffectual  struggles  with  the  rolling  of  the  ship.  “  This 
is  the  first  time  as  ever  I  stood  on  my  head  all  night.” 

“  You  shouldn’t  go  to  sleep  upon  the  ground  with  your  head 
to  leeward,  then,”  growled  a  man  in  one  of  the  berths. 

“With  my  head  to  where?”  asked  Mark. 

The  man  repeated  his  previous  sentiment. 

“No,  I  won’t,  another  time,”  said  Mark,  “when  I  know 
whereabouts  on  the  map  that  country  is.  In  the  meanwhile  I 
can  give  you  a  better  piece  of  advice  :  don’t  you  nor  any  other 
friend  of  mine  never  go  to  sleep  with  his  head  in  a  ship  any 
more.” 

The  man  gave  a  grunt  of  discontented  acquiescence,  turned 
over  in  his  berth,  and  drew  his  blanket  over  his  head. 

“ — For,”  said  Mr.  Tapley,  pursuing  the  theme,  by  way  of  so- 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


127 


liloquy,  in  a  low  tone  of  voice  :  the  sea  is  as  nonsensical  a  thing 
as  any  going.  It  never  knows  what  to  do  with  itself.  It  hasn’t 
got  no  employment  for  its  mind,  and  is  always  in  a  state  of  va¬ 
cancy.  Like  them  Polar  bears .  in  the  wild-beast  shows  as  is 
constantly  a-nodding  their  heads  from  side  to  side,  it  never  can 
be  quiet.  Which  is  entirely  owing  to  its  uncommon  stupidity.” 

66  T  A’MOST  forgot  the  piller,  I  declare!”  said  Mrs.  Gamp, 
JL  drawing  it  away.  “There  !  Now  he’s  comfortable  as  he 
can  be,  I'm  sure  !  I  must  try  to  make  myself  so  much  so  as  I 
can.” 

With  this  view,  she  went  about  the  construction  of  an  extem¬ 
poraneous  bed  in  the  easy-chair,  with  the  addition  of  the  next 
easy  one  for  her  feet.  Having  formed  the  best  couch  that  the 
circumstances  admitted  of,  she  took  out  of  her  bundle  a  yellow 
nightcap  of  prodigious  size,  in  shape  resembling  a  cabbage ; 
which  article  of  dress  she  fixed  and  tied  on  with  the  utmost  care, 
previously  divesting  herself  of  a  row  of  bald  old  curls  that  could 
scarcely  be  called  false,  they  were  so  very  innocent  of  anything 
approaching  to  deception.  From  the  same  repository  she 
brought  forth  a  night-jacket,  in  which  she  also  attired  herself. 
Finally  she  produced  a  watchman’s  coat,  which  she  tied  around 
her  neck  by  the  sleeves,  so  that  she  became  two  people ;  and 
looked  behind  as  if  she  were  in  the  act  of  being  embraced  by 
one  of  the  old  patrol. 

ON  the  seventh  night  of  cribbage,  when  Mrs.  Todgers  sit¬ 
ting  by  proposed  that  instead  of  gambling  they  should 
play  for  “love,”  Mr.  Moddle  was  seen  to  change  color.  On 
the  fourteenth  night  he  kissed  Miss  Pecksniff’s  snuffers,  in  the 
passage,  when  she  went  upstairs  to  bed ;  meaning  to  have  kissed 
her  hand,  but  missing  it. 

66  T  AM  glad  we  met.  I  am  very  glad  we  met.  I  am  able 
X  now  to  ease  my  bosom  of  a  heavy  load,  and  speak  to 
you  in  confidence.  Mary,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff  in  his  tender- 


128 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


est  tones :  indeed,  they  were  so  very  tender  that  he  almost 
squeaked  :  “  My  soul  !  I  love  you  !  ” 

A  fantastic  thing,  that  maiden  affectation  !  She  made  be¬ 
lieve  to  shudder. 

“I  love  you,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  “my  gentle  life,  with  a 
devotion  which  is  quite  surprising,  even  to  myself.  I  did  sup¬ 
pose  that  the  sensation  was  buried  in  the  silent  tomb  of  a  lady, 
only  second  to  you  in  qualities  of  the  mind  and  form  :  but  I 
find  I  am  mistaken.” 

She  tried  to  disengage  her  hand,  but  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  free  herself  from  the  embrace  of  an  affectionate  boa-con¬ 
strictor  :  if  anything  so  wily  may  be  brought  into  comparison 
with  Pecksniff. 

^  IV  /T  Y  dear  Miss  Pecksniff,  you  may  depend  upon  it,”  said 

JLVJL  Mrs.  Todgers,  “that  he  is  burning  to  propose.” 

“My  goodness  me,  why  don’t  he  then  ?”  cried  Cherry. 

“  Men  are  so  much  more  timid  than  we  think  ’em,  my  dear,” 
returned  Mrs.  Todgers.  “They  balk  themselves  continually. 
I  saw  the  words  on  Todgers’ s  lips  for  months  and  months  and 
months,  before  he  said  ’em.” 

Miss  Pecksniff  submitted  that  Todgers  might  not  have  been 
a  fair  specimen. 

“  Oh  yes  he  was.  Oh  bless  you,  yes  my  dear.  I  was  very 
particular  in  those  days,  I  assure  you,”  said  Mrs.  Todgers, 
bridling.  “No,  no.  You  give  Mr.  Moddle  a  little  encourage¬ 
ment,  Miss  Pecksniff,  if  you  wish  him  to  speak  ;  and  he’ll 
speak  fast  enough,  depend  upon  it.” 

“  I  am  sure  I  don’t  know  what  encouragement  he  would 
have,  Mrs.  Todgers,”  returned  Charity.  “He  walks  with  me, 
and  plays  cards  with  me,  and  he  comes  and  sits  along  with 
me.” 

“Quite  right,”  said  Mrs.  Todgers.  “That’s  indispensable, 
my  dear.” 

“  And  he  sits  very  close  to  me.” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I29 


“Also  quite  correct/’  said  Mrs.  Todgers. 

“And  he  looks  at  me.” 

“To  be  sure  he  does,”  said  Mrs.  Todgers. 

“  And  he  has  his  arm  upon  the  back  of  the  chair  or  sofa,  or 
whatever  it  is — behind  me,  you  know.” 

“/should  think  so,”  said  Mrs.  Todgers. 

“  And  then  he  begins  to  cry  !  ” 

Airs.  Todgers  admitted  that  he  might  do  better  than  that ; 
and  might  undoubtedly  profit  by  the  recollection  of  the  great 
Lord  Nelson’s  signal  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  Still,  she  said, 
he  would  come  round,'  or,  not  to  mince  the  matter,  would  be 
brought  round,  if  Miss  Pecksniff  took  up  a  decided  position, 
and  plainly  showed  him  that  it  must  be  done. 

Determining  to  regulate  her  conduct  by  this  opinion,  the 
young  lady  received  Mr.  Moddle,  on  the  earliest  subsequent 
occasion,  with  an  air  of  constraint ;  and  gradually  leading  him 
to  inquire,  in  a  dejected  manner,  why  she  was  so  changed,  con¬ 
fessed  to  him  that  she  felt  it  necessary  for  their  mutual  peace 
and  happiness  to  take  a  decided  step.  They  had  been  much 
together  lately,  she  observed,  much  together,  and  had  tasted 
the  sweets  of  a  genuine  reciprocity  of  sentiment.  She  never 
could  forget  him,  nor  could  she  ever  cease  to  think  of  him  with 
feelings  of  the  liveliest  friendship ;  but  people  had  begun  to 
talk,  the  thing  had  been  observed,  and  it  was  necessary  that 
they  should  be  nothing  more  to  each  other  than  any  gentle 
man  and  lady  in  society  usually  are.  She  was  glad  she  had 
had  the  resolution  to  say  thus  much  before  her  feelings  had 
been  tried  too  far’;  they  had  been  greatly  tried,  she  would  ad¬ 
mit  ;  but  though  she  was  weak  and  silly,  she  would  soon  get 
the  better  of  it,  she  hoped. 

*  Moddle,  who  had  by  this  time  become  in  the  last  degree 
maudlin,  and  wept  abundantly,  inferred  from  the  foregoing 
avowal,  that  it  was  his  mission  to  communicate  to  others  the 
blight  which  had  fallen  on  himself ;  and  that,  being  a  kind  of 
unintentional  Vampire,  he  had  had  Miss  Pecksniff  assigned  to 
him  by  the  Fates,  as  Victim  Number  One.  Miss  Pecksniff 
0* 


130 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


controverting  this  opinion  as  sinful,  Moddle  was  goaded  on  to 
ask  whether  she  could  be  contented  with  a  blighted  heart ;  and 
it  appearing  on  further  examination  that  she  could  be,  plighted 
his  dismal  troth,  which  was  accepted  and  returned. 

He  bore  his  good  fortune  with  the  utmost  moderation.  In¬ 
stead  of  being  triumphant,  he  shed  more  tears  than  he  had  ever 
been  known  to  shed  before  :  and,  sobbbing,  said  : 

“  Oh !  what  a  day  this  has  been  !  I  can’t  go  back  to  the 
office  this  afternoon.  Oh,  what  a  trying  day  this  has  been, 
Good  Gracious  !  ” 

u  A  ND  don’t  go  a-dropping  none  of  your  snuff  in  it,”  said 

lx  Mrs.  Prig.  “  In  gruel,  barley-water,  apple-tea,  mutton- 
broth,  and  that,  it  don’t  signify.  It  stimulates  a  patient.  But 
I  don’t  relish  it  myself.” 

“Why,  Betsey  Prig!”  cried  Mrs.  Gamp,  “how  can  you  talk 
so  !  ” 

“Why,  ain’t  your  patients,  wotever  their  diseases  is,  always 
a-sneezin’  their  wery  heads  off,  along  of  your  snuff?  ”  said  Mrs. 

Prig- 

“And  wot  if  they  are  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

“  Nothing  if  they  are,”  said  Mrs.  Prig.  “  But  don’t  deny  it, 
Sairah.” 

“Who  deniges  of  it  ?  ”  Mrs.  Gamp  inquired. 

Mrs.  Prig  returned  no  answer. 

“Who  deniges  of  it,  Betsey?”  Mrs.  Gamp  inquired  again. 
Then  Mrs.  Gamp,  by  reversing  the  question,  imparted  a  deeper 
and  more  awful  character  of  solemnity  to  the  same.  “  Betsey, 
who  deniges  of  it  ?  ” 

It  was  the  nearest  possible  approach  to  a  very  decided  differ¬ 
ence  of  opinion  between  these  ladies ;  but  Mrs.  Prig’s  impa¬ 
tience  for  the  meal  being  greater  at  the  moment  than  her  im¬ 
patience  of  contradiction,  she  replied,  for  the  present, 
“Nobody,  if  you  don’t,  Sairah,”  and  prepared  herself  for  tea. 
For  a  quarrel  can  be  taken  up  at  any  time,  but  a  limited 
quantity  of  salmon  cannot. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


!3 1 


u  T  HAVE  been  struck  this  day,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff, 

X  “  with  a  walking-stick  (which  I  have  every  reason  to  be¬ 
lieve  has  knobs  upon  it),  on  that  delicate  and  exquisite  portion 
of  the  human  anatomy,  the  brain.  Several  blows  have  been 
inflicted,  sir,  without  a  walking-stick,  upon  that  tenderer  por¬ 
tion  of  my  frame — my  heart.  You  have  mentioned,  sir,  my 
being  bankrupt  in  my  purse.  Yes,  sir,  I  am.  By  an  unfortu¬ 
nate  speculation,  combined  with  treachery,  I  find  myself  re¬ 
duced  to  poverty ;  at  a  time,  sir,  when  the  child  of  my 
bosom  is  widowed,  and  affliction  and  disgrace  are  in  my 
family.” 

Here  Mr.  Pecksniff  wiped  his  eyes  again,  and  gave  himself 
two  or  three  little  knocks  upon  the  breast,  as  if  he  were  an¬ 
swering  two  or  three  other  little  knocks  from  within,  given  by 
the  tinkling  hammer  of  his  conscience,  to  express  “  Cheer  up, 
my  boy !  ” 


OU  may  depend  upon  it,  my  dear  sir,  that  if  you  don’t 


make  a  point  of  taking  lunch,  you’ll  very  soon  come 


under  my  hands.  Allow  me  to  illustrate  this.  In  Mr.  Crim- 
ple’s  leg — ” 

The  resident  Director  gave  an  involuntary  start,  for  the 
doctor,  in  the  heat  of  his  demonstration,  caught  it  up  and  laid 
it  across  his  own,  as  if  he  were  going  to  take  it  off,  then  and 
there. 

“  In  Mr.  Crimple’s  leg,  you’ll  observe,”  pursued  the  doctor, 
turning  back  his  cuffs  and  spanning  the  limb  with  both  hands, 
“where  Mr.  Crimple’s  knee  fits  into  the  socket  here,  there  is 
— that  is  to  say,  between  the  bone  and  the  socket — a  certain 
quantity  of  animal  oil.” 

“What  do  you  pick  my  leg  out  for?”  said  Mr.  Crimple, 
looking  with  something  of  an  anxious  expression  at  his  limb. 
“  It’s  the  same  with  other  legs,  ain’t  it?  ” 

“  Never  you  mind,  my  good  sir,”  returned  the  doctor,  shak¬ 
ing  his  head,  “  whether  it  is  the  same  with  other  legs,  or  not 
the  same.” 


1 32 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  But  I  do  mind/’  said  David. 

“  I  take  a  particular  case,  Mr.  Montague,”  returned  the 
doctor,  “  as  illustrating  my  remark,  you  observe.  In  this  por¬ 
tion  of  Mr.  Crimple’s  leg,  sir,  there  is  a  certain  amount  of 
animal  oil.  In  every  one  of  Mr.  Crimple’s  joints,  sir,  there  is 
more  or  less  of  the  same  deposit.  Very  good.  If  Mr.  Crim- 
ple  neglects  his  meals,  or  fails  to  take  his  proper  quantity  of 
rest,  that  oil  wanes  and  becomes  exhausted.  What  is  the  con¬ 
sequence  ?  Mr.  Crimple’s  bones  sink  down  in  their  sockets, 
sir,  and  Mr.  Crimple  becomes  a  weazen,  puny,  stunted,  miser¬ 
able  man  !  ” 

The  doctor  let  Mr.  Crimple’s  leg  fall  suddenly,  as  if  he  were 
already  in  that  agreeable  condition ;  turned  down  his  wrist¬ 
bands  again,  and  looked  triumphantly  at  the  chairman. 

“We  know  a  few  secrets  of  nature  in  our  profession,  sir,” 
said  the  doctor.  “  Of  course  we  do.  We  study  for  that ;  we 
pass  the  Hall  and  the  College  for  that ;  and  we  take  our  situa¬ 
tion  in  society  by  that.  It’s  extraordinary  how  little  is  known 
on  these  subjects  generally.  Where  do  you  suppose,  now  :  ” 
the  doctor  closed  one  eye,  as  he  leaned  back  smilingly  in  his 
chair,  and  formed  a  triangle  with  his  hands,  of  which  his  two 
thumbs  composed  the  base:  “where  do  you  suppose  Mr. 
Crimples’s  stomach  is  ?  ” 

Mr.  Crimple,  more  agitated  than  before,  clapped  his  hand 
immediately  below  his  waistcoat. 

“  Not  at  all,”  cried  the  doctor  ;  “not  at  all.  Quite  a  pop¬ 
ular  mistake.  My  good  sir,  you’re  altogether  deceived.” 

“  I  feel  it  there,  when  it’s  out  of  order  ;  that’s  all  I  know,” 
said  Crimple. 

“You  think  you  do,”  replied  the  doctor;  “but  science 
knows  better.  There  was  a  patient  of  mine  once  ;  ”  touching 
one  of  the  many  mourning  rings  upon  his  lingers,  and  slightly 
bowing  his  head  :  “  a  gentleman  who  did  me  the  honor  to 
make  a  very  handsome  mention  of  me  in  his  will — 4  in  testi¬ 
mony,’  as  he  was  pleased  to  say,  ‘  of  the  unremitting  zeal, 
talent,  and  attention  of  my  friend  and  medical  attendant,  John 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


x33 


Jobling,  Esquire,  M.  R.  C.  S3 — who  was  so  overcome  by  the 
idea  of  having  all  his  life  labored  under  an  erroneous  view  of 
the  locality  of  this  important  organ,  that  when  I  assured  him, 
on  my  professional  reputation,  he  was  mistaken,  he  burst  into 
tears,  put  out  his  hand,  and  said,  ‘Jobling,  God  bless  you!’ 
Immediately  afterwards  he  became  speechless,  and  was  ulti¬ 
mately  buried  at  Brixton.” 

THAT  do  you  call  this  house?  Not  the  Dragon, 

V  V  do  you  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Lupin  complacently  made  answer,  u  Yes,  the  Dragon.” 

“  Why,  then,  you’ve  got  a  sort  of  relation  of  mine  here, 
ma’am,”  said  the  traveller :  “a  young  man  by  the  name  of 
Tapley.  What !  Mark  !  my  boy  !  ”  apostrophizing  the  prem¬ 
ises,  “have  I  come  upon  you  at  last,  old  buck  !  ” 

This  was  touching  Mrs.  Lupin  on  a  tender  point.  She 
turned  to  trim  the  candle  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  said,  with 
her  back  towards  the  traveller  : 

“Nobody  should  be  made  more  -welcome  at  the  Dragon, 
master,  than  any  one  who  brought  me  news  of  Mark.  But  it’s 
many  and  many  a  long  day  and  month  since  he  left  here  and 
England.  And  whether  he’s  alive  or  dead,  poor  fellow, 
Heaven  above  ns  only  knows  !  ” 

She  shook  her  head,  and  her  voice  trembled ;  her  hand  must 
have  done  so,  too,  for  the  light  required  a  deal  of  trimming. 

“Where  did  he  go,  ma’am  ?  ”  asked  the  traveller,  in  a  gent¬ 
ler  voice. 

“  He  went,”  said  Mrs.  Lupin,  with  increased  distress,  “  to 
America.  He  was  always  tender-hearted  and  kind,  and  per¬ 
haps  at  this  moment  may  be  lying  in  prison  under  sentence  of 
death,  for  taking  pity  on  some  miserable  black,  and  helping 
Tie  poor  runaway  creetur  to  escape.  How  could  he  ever  go  to 
America  !  Why  didn’t  he  go  to  some  of  those  countries  where 
the  savages  eat  each  other  fairly,  and  give  an  equal  chance  to 
every  one  !  ” 

Quite  subdued  by  this  time,  Mrs.  Lupin  sobbed,  and  was 


T34 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


retiring  to  a  chair  to  give  her  grief  free  vent,  when  the  traveller 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  uttered  a  cry  of  recognition. 

“  Yes,  I  will!”  cried  Mark,  “another — one  more — twenty 
more  !  You  didn’t  know  me  in  that  hat  and  coat  ?  I  thought 
you  would  have  known  me  anywheres  !  Ten  more  !  ” 

“So  I  should  have  known  you,  if  I  could  have  seen  you  ; 
but  I  couldn’t,  and  you  spoke  so  gruff.  I  didn’t  think  you 
could  speak  gruff  to  me,  Mark,  at  first  coming  back.”  « 

“  Fifteen  more  !  ”  said  Mr.  Tapley.  “  How  handsome  and 
how  young  you  look  !  Six  more  !  The  last  half-dozen  warn’t 
a  fair  one,  and  must  be  done  over  again.  Lord  bless  you, 
what  a  treat  it  is  to  see  you  !  One  more  !  Well,  I  never  was 
so  jolly.  Just  a  few  more,  on  account  of  there  not  being  any 
credit  in  it  !  ” 

When  Mr.  Tapley  stopped  in  these  calculations  in  simple 
addition,  he  did  it,  not  because  he  was  at  all  tired  of  the  exer¬ 
cise,  but  because  he  was  out  of  breath.  The  pause  reminded 
him  of  other  duties. 

“  Mr.  Martin  Chuzzlewit’s  outside,”  he  said.  “  I  left  him 
under  the  cart-shed,  while  I  came  on  to  see  if  there  was  any¬ 
body  here.  We  want  to  keep  quiet  to-night,  till  we  know  the 
news  from  you,  and  what  it’s  best  for  us  to  do.” 

“There’s  not  a  soul  in  the  house,  except  the  kitchen  com¬ 
pany,”  returned  the  hostess.  “  If  they  were  to  know  you  had 
come  back,  Mark,  they’d  have  a  bonfire  in  the  street,  late  as  it 
is.” 

“  But  they  mustn’t  know  it  to-night,  my  precious  soul,”  said 
Mark ;  “so  have  the  house  shut,  and  the  kitchen  fire  made 
lip  ;  and  when  it’s  all  ready,  put  a  light  in  the  winder,  and  we’ll 
come  in.  One  more  !  I  long  to  hear  about  old  friends. 
You’ll  tell  me  all  about  ’em,  won’t  you  :  Mr.  Pinch,  and  the 
butcher’s  dog  down  the  street,  and  the  terrier  over  the  way, 
and  the  wheelwright’s,  and  every  one  of  ’em.  When  I  first 
caught  sight  of  the  church  to-night,  I  thought  the  steeple  would 
have  choked  me,  I  did.  One  more!  Won’t  you?  Not  a 
little  one  to  finish  off  with  ?  ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I35 


“You  have  had  plenty,  I  am  sure,”  said  the  hostess.  “Go 
along  with  your  foreign  manners  !  ” 

“  That  ain’t  foreign,  bless  you  !  ”  cried  Mark.  “  Native  as 
oysters,  that  is  !  One  more,  because  it’s  native  !  As  a  mark 
of  respect  for  the  land  we  live  in  !  This  don’t  count  as  be¬ 
tween  you  and  me,  you  understand,”  said  Mr.  Tapley.  “  I 
ain’t  a-kissing  you  now,  you’ll  observe.  I  have  been  among 
the  patriots  !  I’m  a-kissing  my  country  !  ” 

MARK’S  uncertainty  in  respect  of  what  was  going  to  be 
done  or  said,  and  by  whom  to  whom,  would  have  excited 
him  in  itself.  But  knowing  for  a  certainty  besides,  that  young 
Martin  was  coming,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  must  arrive,  he 
found  it  by  no  means  easy  to  remain  quiet  and  silent.  But, 
excepting  that  he  occasionally  coughed  in  a  hollow  and  unnat¬ 
ural  manner  to  relieve  himself,  he  behaved  with  great  decorum 
through  the  longest  ten  minutes  he  had  ever  known. 

A  knock  at  the  door.  Mr.  Westlock.  Mr.  Tapley,  in  ad¬ 
mitting  him,  raised  his  eyebrows  to  the  highest  possible  pitch, 
implying  thereby  that  he  considered  himself  in  an  unsatisfactory 
position.  Mr.  Chuzzlewit  received  him  very  courteously. 

Mark  waited  at  the  door  for  Tom  Pinch  and  his  sister,  who 
were  coming  up  the  stairs.  The  old  man  went  to  meet  them, 
took  their  hands  in  his,  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  As  this 
looked  promising,  Mr.  Tapley  smiled  benignantly. 

Mr.  Chuzzlewit  had  resumed  his  chair  before  young  Martin, 
who  was  close  behind  them,  entered.  The  old  man,  scarcely 
looking  at  him,  pointed  to  a  distant  seat.  This  was  less  en¬ 
couraging,  and  Mr.  Tapley’ s  spirits  fell  again. 

He  was  quickly  summoned  to  the  door  by  another  knock. 
He  did  not  start,  or  cry,  or  tumble  down,  at  sight  of  Miss  Gra¬ 
ham  and  Mrs.  Lupin,  but  he  drew  a  very  long  breath,  and  came 
back  perfectly  resigned,  looking  on  them  and  on  the  rest  with 
an  expression  which  seemed  to  say  that  nothing  could  surprise 
him  any  more  ;  and  that  he  was  rather  glad  to  have  done  with 
that  sensation  forever. 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


i3<5 

The  old  man  received  Mary  no  less  tenderly  than  he  had  re¬ 
ceived  Tom  Pinch’s  sister.  A  look  of  friendly  recognition 
passed  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Lupin,  which  implied  the  ex¬ 
istence  of  a  perfect  understanding  between  them.  It  engen¬ 
dered  no  astonishment  in  Mr.  Tapley,  for,  as  he  afterwards 
observed,  he  had  retired  from  the  business  and  sold  off  the 
stock. 

Not  the  least  curious  feature  in  this  assemblage  was,  that 
everybody  present  was  so  much  surprised  and  embarrassed  by 
the  sight  of  everybody  else,  that  nobody  ventured  to  speak. 
Mr.  Chuzzlewit  alone  broke  silence. 

“Set  the  door  open,  Mark,”  he  said,  “and  come  here.” 
Mark  obeyed. 

The  last  appointed  footstep  sounded  now  upon  the  stairs. 
They  all  knew  it.  It  was  Mr.  Pecksniffs  ;  and  Mr.  Peck¬ 
sniff  was  in  a  hurry,  too,  for  he  came  bounding  up  with  such 
uncommon  expedition  that  he  stumbled  twice  or  thrice. 

“Where  is  my  venerable  friend?”  he  cried  upon  the  upper 
landing ;  and  then  with  open  arms  came  darting  in. 

u  TARAG  him  away!  Take  him  out  of  my  reach!”  said 

1  /  Martin  ;  “or  I  can’t  help  it.  The  strong  restraint  I 
have  put  upon  my  hands  has  been  enough  to  palsy  them.  I 
am  not  master  of  myself  while  he  is  within  their  range.  Drag 
him  away  !  ” 

Seeing  that  he  still  did  not  rise,  Mr.  Tapley,  without  any 
compromise  about  it,  actually  did  drag  him  away,  and  stick 
him  up  on  the  floor,  with  his  back  against  the  opposite  wall. 

“Hear  me,  rascal!”  said  Mr.  Chuzzlewit.  “I  have  sum¬ 
moned  you  here  to  witness  your  own  work.  I  have  summoned 
you  here  to  witness  it,  because  I  know  it  will  be  gall  and  worm¬ 
wood  to  you  !  I  have  summoned  you  here  to  witness  it,  be¬ 
cause  I  know  the  sight  of  everybody  here  must  be  a  dagger  in 
your  mean,  false  heart  !  What !  do  you  know  me  as  I  am,  at 
last  ?  ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


137 


Mr.  Pecksniff  had  cause  to  stare  at  him,  for  the  triumph  in 
his  face  and  speech  and  figure  was  a  sight  to  stare  at. 

“  Look  there  !  ”  said  the  old  man,  pointing  at  him,  and  ap¬ 
pealing  to  the  rest.  “  Look  there  !  And  then — come  hither, 
my  dear  Martin — look  here  !  here  !  here  !  ”  At  every  repeti¬ 
tion  of  the  word  he  pressed  his  grandson  closer  to  his  breast. 

“The  passion  I  felt,  Martin,  when  I  dared  not  do  this,”  he 
said,  “  was  in  the  blow  I  struck  just  now.  Why  did  we  ever 
part  ?  How  could  we  ever  part  ?  How  could  you  ever  fly 
from  me  to  him  ?  ” 

Martin  was  about  to  answer,  but  he  stopped  him,  and  went  on. 

“The  fault  was  mine  no  less  than  yours.  Mark  has  told  me 
so  to-day,  and  I  have  known  it  long,  though  not  so  long  as  I 
might  have  done.  Mary,  my  love,  come  here.” 

And  she  trembled  and  was  very  pale,  he  sat  her  in  his  own 
chair,  and  stood  beside  it  with  her  hand  in  his ;  and  Martin 
standing  by  him. 

“  The  curse  of  our  house,”  said  the  old  man,  looking  kindly 
down  upon  her,  “has  been  the  love  of  self;  has  ever  been  the 
love  of  self.  How  often  have  I  said  so,  when  I  never  knew 
that  I  had  wrought  it  upon  others  !  ” 

He  drew  one  hand  through  Martin’s  arm,  and  standing  so, 
between  them,  proceeded  thus  : 

“You  all  know  how  I  bred  this  orphan  up,  to  tend  me. 
None  of  you  can  know  by  what  degrees  I  have  come  to  regard 
her  as  a  daughter ;  for  she  has  won  upon  me,  by  her  self-forget¬ 
fulness,  her  tenderness,  her  patience,  all  the  goodness  of  her 
nature,  when  Heaven  is  her  witness  that  I  took  but  little  pains 
to  draw  it  forth.  It  blossomed  without  cultivation,  and  it 
ripened  without  heat.  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say  that 
I  am  sorry  for  it  now,  or  yonder  fellow  might  be  holding  up 
his  head.” 

u  T])RAY,”  interposed  Miss  Pecksniff,  “do  not  allow  Au- 

X  gustus',  at  this  awful  moment  of  his  life  and  mine,  to 
be  the  means  of  disturbing  that  harmony  which  it  is  ever 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


138 

Augustus’  and  my  wish  to  maintain.  Augustus  has  not  been  in¬ 
troduced  to  any  of  my  relations  now  present.  He  preferred  not.” 

“Why,  then,  I  venture  to  assert,”  cried  Mr.  Spottletoe,  “that 
the  man  who  aspires  to  join  this  family,  and  ‘prefers  not’  to  be 
introduced  to  its  members,  is  an  impertinent  Puppy.  That  is 
my  opinion  of  him  !  ”  * 

The  strong-minded  woman  remarked  with  great  suavity,  that 
she  was  afraid  he  must  be.  Her  three  daughters  observed 
aloud  that  it  was  “  shameful !  ” 

“You  do  not  know  Augustus,”  said  Miss  Pecksniff,  tearfully, 
“  indeed  you  do  not  know  him.  Augustus  is  all  mildness  and 
humility.  Wait  ’till  you  see  Augustus,  and  I  am  sure  he  will 
conciliate  your  affections.” 

“The  question  arises,”  said  Spottletoe,  folding  his  arms: 
“How  long  we  are  to  wait?  I  am  not  accustomed  to  wait; 
that’s  the  fact.  And  I  want  to  know  how  long  we  are  expected 
to  wait.” 

“  Mrs.  Todgers  !  ”  said  Charity,  “  Mr.  Jinkins  !  I  am  afraid 
there  must  be  some  mistake.  I  think  Augustus  must  have 
gone  straight  to  the  Altar  !  ” 

As  such  a  thing  was  possible,  and  the  church  was  close  at 
hand,  Mr.  Jinkins  ran  off  to  see,  accompanied  by  Mr.  George 
Chuzzlewit,  the  bachelor  cousin,  who  preferred  anything  to  the 
aggravation  of  sitting  near  the  breakfast,  without  being  able  to 
eat  it.  But  they  came  back  with  no  other  tidings  than  a  familiar 
message  from  the  clerk,  importing  that  if  they  wanted  to  be 
married  that  morning  they  had  better  look  sharp,  as  the  curate 
wasn’t  going  to  wait  there  all  day. 

The  bride  was  now  alarmed;  seriously  alarmed.  Good 
Heavens,  what  could  have  happened  !  Augustus  !  Dear  Au¬ 
gustus  ! 

Mr.  Jinkins  volunteered  to  take  a  cab,  and  seek  him  at  the 
newly-furnished  house.  The  strong-minded  woman  admin¬ 
istered  comfort  to  Miss  Pecksniff.  “  It  was  a  specimen  of 
what  she  had  to  expect.  It  would  do  her  good.  It  would 
dispel  the  romance  of  the  affair.”  The  red-nosed  daughters 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


139 


also  administered  the  kindest  comfort.  “Perhaps  he’d  come,” 
they  said.  The  sketchy  nephew  hinted  that  he  might  have 
fallen  off  a  bridge.  The  wrath  of  Mr.  Spottletoe  resisted  all 
the  entreaties  of  his  wife.  Everybody  spoke  at  once,  and  Miss 
Pecksniff,  with  clasped  hands,  sought  consolation  everywhere 
and  found  it  nowhere,  when  Jinkins,  having  met  the  postman 
at  the  door,  came  back  with  a  letter,  which  he  put  into  her 
hand. 

Miss  Pecksniff  opened  it ;  glanced  at  it ;  uttered  a  piercing 
shriek  ;  threw  it  down  upon  the  ground ;  and  fainted  away. 

They  picked  it  up  ;  and  crowding  around,  and  looking  over 
one  another’s  shoulders,  read,  in  the  words  and  dashes  follow¬ 
ing,  this  communication : 


“Off  Gravesend. 

“Clipper  Schooner  Cupid. 

“  Wednesday  night. 

“Ever-injured  Miss  Pecksniff, 

“  Ere  this  reaches  you,  the  undersigned  will  be — if  not  a 
corpse — on  the  way  to  Van  Diemen’s  Land.  Send  not  in  pur¬ 
suit.  I  never  will  be  taken  alive. 

“The  burden — 300  tons  per  register — forgive,  if  in  my  dis¬ 
traction  I  allude  to  the  ship — on  my  mind — has  been  truly 
dreadful.  Frequently — when  you  have  sought  to  soothe  my 
brow  with  kisses — has  self-destruction  flashed  across  me.  Fre¬ 
quently — incredible  as  it  may  seem — have  I  abandoned  the 
idea. 

“I  love  another.  She  is  Another’s.  Everything  appears  to 
be  somebody  else’s.  Nothing  in  the  world  is  mine — not  even 
my  Situation — which  I  have  forfeited — by  my  rash  conduct — 
in  running  away. 

“If  you  ever  loved  me,  hear  my  last  appeal !  The  last 
appeal  of  a  miserable  and  blighted  exile.  Forward  the  enclosed 
— it  is  the  key  of  my  desk — to  the  office — by  hand.  Please 
address  to  Bobbs  and  Cholberry — I  mean  to  Chobbs  and  Bol- 
berry — but  my  mind  is  totally  unhinged.  I  left  a  penknife — 


T4o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


with  a  buckhorn  handle — in  your  work-box.  It  will  repay  the 
messenger.  May  it  make  him  happier  than  it  ever  did  me  ! 

“  Oh,  Miss  Pecksniff,  why  didn’t  you  leave  me  alone  !  Was 
it  not  cruel,  cruel !  Oh,  my  goodness,  have  you  not  been  a 
witness  of  my  feelings — have  you  not  seen  them  flowing  from 
my  eyes — did  you  not,  yourself,  reproach  me  with  weeping 
more  than  usual  on  that  dreadful  night  when  last  we  met — in 
that  house — where  I  once  was  peaceful — though  blighted — in 
the  society  of  Mrs.  Todgers ! 

“  But  it  was  written — in  the  Talmud — that  you  should  involve 
yourself  in  the  inscrutable  and  gloomy  Fate  which  it  is  my 
mission  to  accomplish,  and  which  wreathes  itself — e’en  now — • 
about  my — temples.  I  will  not  reproach,  for  I  have  wronged 
you.  May  the  Furniture  make  some  amends  ! 

“  Farewell !  Be  the  proud  bride  of  a  ducal  coronet,  and 
forget  me  !  Long  may  it  be  before  you  know  the  anguish  with 
which  I  now  subscribe  myself — amid  the  tempestuous  howling 
of  the — sailors, 

“Unalterably,  never  yours, 

“  Augustus.” 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

u  A  H!  Newman,”  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  looking  up  as  he 
l  \  pursued  his  occupation.  “  The  letter  about  the  mort¬ 
gage  has  come,  has  it  ?  I  thought  it  would.” 

“  Wrong,”  replied  Newman. 

“  What !  and  nobody  called  respecting  it  ?  ”  inquired  Mr. 
Nickleby,  pausing.  Noggs  shook  his  head. 

“  What  has  come,  then  ?  ”  inquired  Mr.  Nickleby. 

“I  have,”  said  Newman. 

“What  else?”  demanded  the  master  sternly. 

“This,”  said  Newman,  drawing  a  sealed  letter  slowly  from 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


141 


his  pocket.  “Postmark,  Strand,  black  wax,  black  border, 
woman’s  hand,  C.  N.  in  the  corner.” 

“  Black  wax  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Nickleby,  glancing  at  the  letter. 
“I  know  something  of  that  hand,  too.  Newman,  I  shouldn’t 
be  surprised  if  my  brother  were  dead.” 

“  I  don’t  think  you  would,”  said  Newman,  quietly. 

“Why  not,  sir?”  demanded  Mr.  Nickleby. 

“You  never  are  surprised,”  replied  Newman,  “that’s  all.” 

EWMAN  fell  a  little  behind  his  master,  and  his  face  was 


jL  N  curiously  twisted  as  by  a  spasm  ;  but  whether  of  paral¬ 
ysis,  or  grief,  or  inward  laughter,  nobody  but  himself  could  pos¬ 
sibly  explain.  The  expression  of  a  man’s  face  is  commonly  a 
help  to  his  thoughts,  or  glossary  on  his  speech;  but  the  coun¬ 
tenance  of  Newman  Noggs,  in  his  ordinary  moods,  was  a  prob¬ 
lem  which  no  stretch  of  ingenuity  could  solve. 


ALF-PAST  three,”  muttered  Mr.  Squeers,  turning 


from  the  window,  and  looking  sulkily  at  the  coffee- 


room  clock.  “There  will  be  nobody  here  to-day.” 

Much  vexed  by  this  reflection,  Mr.  Squeers  looked  at  the 
little  boy  to  see  whether  he  was  doing  anything  he  could  beat 
him  for.  As  he  happened  not  to  be  doing  anything  at  all,  he 
merely  boxed  his  ears,  and  told  him  not  to  do  it  again. 

“  At  Midsummer,”  muttered  Mr.  Squeers,  resuming  his  com¬ 
plaint,  “  I  took  down  ten  boys  ;  ten  twentys  is  two  hundred 
pound.  I  go  back  at  eight  o’clock  to-morrow  morning,  and 
have  got  only  three — three  aughts  is  an  aught — three  twos  is 
six — sixty  pound.  What’s  come  of  all  the  boys?  what’s  par¬ 
ents  got  in  their  heads  ?  what  does  it  all  mean  ? 

Here  the  little  boy  on  the  top  of  the  trunk  gave  a  violent 
sneeze. 

“  Plalloa,  sir !  ”  growled  the  schoolmaster,  turning  round. 
“  What’s  that,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Nothing,  please  sir,”  said  the  little  boy. 

“  Nothing,  sir  !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Squeers. 


142 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Please  sir,  I  sneezed,”  rejoined  the  boy,  till  the  little  trunk 
shook  under  him. 

“Oh!  sneezed,  did  you?”  retorted  Mr.  Squeers.  “Then 
what  did  you  say  4  nothing 5  for,  sir  ?  ” 

In  default  of  a  better  answer  to  this  question,  the  little  boy 
screwed  a  couple  of  knuckles  into  his  eyes  and  began  to  cry, 
wherefore  Mr.  Squeers  knocked  him  off  the  trunk  with  a  blow 
on  one  side  of  his  face,  and  knocked  him  on  again  with  a  blow 
on  the  other. 

“Wait  till  I  get  you  down  into  Yorkshire,  my  young  gentle¬ 
man,”  said  Mr.  Squeers,  “and  then  I’ll  give  you  the  rest.  Will 
you  hold  that  noise,  sir  ?  ” 

“Ye — ye — yes,”  sobbed  the  little  boy,  rubbing  his  face  very 
hard  with  the  Beggar’s  Petition  in  printed  calico. 

“  Then  do  it  at  once,  sir,”  said  Squeers.  “  Do  you  hear?  ” 

As  this  admonition  was  accompanied  with  a  threatening  ges¬ 
ture,  and  uttered  with  a  savage  aspect,  the  little  boy  rubbed  his 
face  harder,  as  if  to  keep  the  tears  back  ;  and,  beyond  alter¬ 
nately  sniffing  and  choking,  gave  no  further  vent  to  his 
emotions. 

“Mr.  Squeers,”  said  the  waiter,  looking  in  at  this  juncture  ; 
“here’s  a  gentleman  asking  for  you  at  the  bar.” 

“  Show  the  gentleman  in,  Richard,”  replied  Mr.  Squeers,  in 
a  soft  voice.  “  Put  your  handkerchief  in  your  pocket,  you 
little  scoundrel,  or  I’ll  murder  you  when  the  gentleman  goes.” 

The  schoolmaster  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  in  a 
fierce  whisper,  when  the  stranger  entered.  Affecting  not  to 
see  him,  Mr.  Squeers  feigned  to  be  intent  upon  mending  a 
pen,  and  offering  benevolent  advice  to  his  youthful  pupil. 


N”  ICPIOLAS  slept  well  till  six  next  morning;  dreamed  of 
home,  or  of  what  was  home  once — no  matter  which, 
for  things  that  are  changed  or  gone  will  come  back  as  they 
used  to  be,  thank  God  !  in  sleep — and  rose  quite  brisk  and 
gay.  He  wrote  a  few  lines  in  pencil,  to  say  the  good-by  which 
he  was  afraid  to  pronounce  himself,  and  laying  them,  with  half 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


143 


his  scanty  stock  of  money,  at  his  sister’s  door,  shouldered  his 
box  and  crept  softly  downstairs. 

“  Is  that  you,  Hannah  ?”  cried  a  voice  from  Miss  La  Creevy’s 
sitting-room,  whence  shone  the  light  of  a  feeble  candle. 

“It  is  I,  Miss  La  Creevy,”  said  Nicholas,  putting  down  the 
box  and  looking  in. 

“  Bless  us !  ”  exclaimed  Miss  La  Creevy,  starting  and  put¬ 
ting  her  hand  to  her  curl-papers ;  “  you’re  up  very  early,  Mr. 
Nickleby.” 

“So  are  you,”  replied  Nicholas. 

“It’s  the  tine  arts  that  bring  me  out  of  bed,  Mr.  Nickleby,” 
returned  the  lady.  “  I’m  waiting  for  the  light  to  carry  out  an 
idea.” 

Miss  La  Creevy  had  got  up  early  to  put  a  fancy  nose  into  a 
miniature  of  an  ugly  little  boy,  destined  for  his  grandmother  in 
the  country,  who  was  expected  to  bequeath  him  property  if  he 
was  like  the  family. 

“To  carryout  an  idea,”  repeated  Miss  La  Creevy;  “and 
that’s  the  great  convenience  of  living  in  a  thoroughfare  like  the 
Strand.  When  I  want  a  nose  or  an  eye  for  any  particular 
sitter,  I  have  only  to  look  out  of  window  and  wait  till  I  get 
one.” 

“  Does  it  take  long  to  get  a  nose,  now?”  inquired  Nicholas, 
smiling. 

“  Why,  that  depends  in  a  great  measure  on  the  pattern,” 
replied  Miss  La  Creevy.  “  Snubs  and  romans  Me  plentiful 
enough,  and  there  are  flats  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  when  there’s  a 
meeting  at  Exeter  Hall ;  but  perfect  aquilines,  1  am  sorry  to 
say,  are  scarce,  and  we  generally  use  them  for  uniforms  or 
public  characters.” 

“Indeed!”  said  Nicholas.  “If  I  should  meet  with  any  in 
my  travels,  I’ll  endeavor  to  sketch  them  for  you.” 

4  4  4  AVE  you,  fair  daughters  !  ’  said  the  friar ;  and  fair  in 
truth  they  were.  Even  a  monk  might  have  loved  them 
as  choice  master-pieces  of  his  Maker’s  hand. 


144 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“The  sisters  saluted  the  holy  man  with  becoming  reverence, 
and  the  eldest  motioned  him  to  a  mossy  seat  beside  them. 
But  the  good  friar  shook  his  head,  and  bumped  himself  down 
on  a  very  hard  stone, — at  which,  no  doubt,  approving  angels 
were  gratified. 

“  ‘  Ye  were  merry,  daughters,’  said  the  monk. 

“  ‘  You  know  how  light  of  heart  sweet  Alice  is,’  replied  the 
eldest  sister,  passing  her  fingers  through  the  tresses  of  the 
smiling  girl. 

“  ‘And  what  joy  and  cheerfulness  it  wakes  up  within  us,  to 
see  all  nature  beaming  in  brightness  and  sunshine,  father,’ 
added  Alice,  blushing  beneath  the  stern  look  of  the  recluse. 

“  The  monk  answered  not,  save  by  a  grave  inclination  of  the 
head,  and  the  sisters  pursued  their  task  in  silence. 

“  ‘  Still  wasting  the  precious  hours,’  said  the  monk  at  length, 
turning  to  the  eldest  sister  as  he  spoke,  ‘  still  wasting  the 
precious  hours  on  this  vain  trifling.  Alas,  alas  !  that  the  few 
bubbles  on  the  surface  of  eternity — all  that  Heaven  wills  we 
should  see  of  that  dark,  deep  stream — should  be  so  lightly 
scattered !  ’ 

“  ‘  Father,’  urged  the  maiden,  pausing,  as  did  each  of  the 
others,  in  her  busy  task,  ‘we  have  prayed  at  matins,  our 
daily  alms  have  been  distributed  at  the  gate,  the  sick  peasants 
have  been  tended — all  our  morning  tasks  have  been  per¬ 
formed.  I  hope  our  occupation  is  a  blameless  one  ?  ’ 

“  ‘See  here,’  said  the  friar,  taking  the  frame  from  her  hand, 

‘  an  intricate  winding  of  gaudy  colors,  without  purpose  or  ob¬ 
ject,  unless  it  be  that  one  day  it  is  destined  for  some  vain  or¬ 
nament,  to  minister  to  the  pride  of  your  frail  and  giddy  sex. 
Day  after  day  has  been  employed  upon  this  senseless  task,  and 
yet  it  is  not  half  accomplished.  The  shade  of  each  departed 
day  falls  upon  our  graves,  and  the  worm  exults  as  he  beholds 
it,  to  know  that  we  are  hastening  thither.  Daughters,  is  there 
no  better  way  to  pass  the  fleeting  hours  ?  ’ 

“  The  four  elder  sisters  cast  down  their  eyes  as  if  abashed  by 


PE  C  UL I  A  R  INCIDENCES. 


145 


the  holy  man’s  reproof,  but  Alice  raised  hers,  and  bent  them 
mildly  on  the  friar. 

“  ‘  Our  dear  mother,’  said  the  maiden ;  ‘  Heaven  rest  her  soul !  ’ 

“  1  Amen  !  ’  cried  the  friar,  in  a  deep  voice. 

“  ‘  Our  dear  mother,’  faltered  the  fair  Alice,  4  was  living  when 
these  long  tasks  began,  and  bade  us,  when  she  should  be  no 
more,  ply  them  in  all  discretion  and  cheerfulness,  in  our  leisure 
hours ;  she  said  that  if  in  harmless  mirth  and  maidenly  pursuits 
we  passed  those  hours  together,  they  would  prove  the  happiest 
and  most  peaceful  of  our  lives,  and  that  if,  in  later  times,  we 
went  forth  into  the  world,  and  mingled  with  its  cares  and  trials 
— if,  allured  by  its  temptations  and  dazzled  by  its  glitter,  we 
ever  forgot  that  love  and  duty  which  should  bind,  in  holy  ties, 
the  children  of  one  loved  parent — a  glance  at  the  old  work  of 
our  common  girlhood  would  awaken  good  thoughts  of  by-gone 
days,  and  soften  our  hearts  to  affection  and  love.’ 

Alice  speaks  truly,  father,’  said  the  elder  sister,  somewhat 
proudly.  And  so  saying  she  resumed  her  work,  as  did  the 
others. 

“It  was  a  kind  of  sampler  of  large  size,  that  each  sister  had 
before  her  ;  the  device  was  of  a  complex  and  intricate  descrip¬ 
tion,  and  the  pattern  and  colors  of  all  live  were  the  same.  The 
sisters  bent  gracefully  over  their  work ;  the  monk,  resting  his 
chin  upon  his  hands,  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  silence. 

“  ‘  How  much  better,’  he  said  at  length,  1  to  shun  all  such 
thoughts  and  chances,  and,  in  the  peaceful  shelter  of  the  church, 
devote  your  lives  to  Heaven  !  Infancy,  childhood,  the  prime  of 
life^  and  old  age,  wither  as  rapidly  as  they  crowd  upon  each 
other.  Think  how  human  dust  rolls  onward  to  the  tomb,  and 
turning  your  faces  steadily  towards  that  goal,  avoid  the  cloud 
which  takes  its  rise  among  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  and 
cheats  the  senses  of  their  votaries.  The  veil,  daughters,  the  veil !  ’ 

“  ‘  Never,  sisters,’  cried  Alice.  1  Barter  not  the  light  and  air 
of  heaven,  and  the  freshness  of  earth  and  all  the  beautiful 
things  which  breathe  upon  it,  for  the  cold  cloister  and  the  cell. 
Nature’s  own  blessings  are  the  proper  goods  of  life,  and  we 
7 


146 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


may  share  them  sinlessly  together.  To  die  is  our  heavy  por¬ 
tion,  but,  oh,  let  us  die  with  life  about  us ;  when  our  cold  hearts 
cease  to  beat,  let  warm  hearts  be  beating  near  ;  let  our  last 
look  be  upon  the  bounds  which  God  has  set  to  his  own  bright 
skies,  and  not  on  stone  walls  and  bars  of  iron  !  Dear  sisters, 
let  us  live  and  die,  if  you  list,  in  this  green  garden’s  compass; 
only  shun  the  gloom  and  sadness  of  a  cloister,  and  we  shall  be 
happy.’  ” 

MR.  SQUEERS  then  proceeded  to  open  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  letters ;  some  inclosing  money,  which  Mrs. 
Squeers  “  took  care  of and  others  referring  to  small  articles 
of  apparel,  as  caps  and  so  forth,  all  of  which  the  same  lady 
states  to  be  too  large,  or  too  small,  and  calculated  for  nobody 
but  young  Squeers,  who  would  appear  indeed  to  have  had  most 
accommodating  limbs,  since  everything  that  came  into  the 
school  fitted  him  to  a  nicety.  His  head,  in  particular,  must 
have  been  singularly  elastic,  for  hats  and  caps  of  all  dimensions 
were  alike  to  him. 


OW,  ma’am,”  said  Ralph,  who  had  looked  on  at  all 


this  with  such  scorn  as  few  men  can  express  in 


looks,  u  this  is  my  niece.” 

“  Just  so,  Mr.  Nickleby,”  replied  Madame  Mantalini,  survey¬ 
ing  Kate  from  head  to  foot,  and  back  again.  “  Can  you  speak 
French,  child  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  ma’am,”  replied  Kate,  not  daring  to  look  up  ;  for  she 
felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  odious  man  in  the  dressing-gown  were 
directed  towards  her. 

“  Like  a  demd  native  ?  ”  asked  the  husband. 

Miss  Nickleby  offered  no  reply  to  this  inquiry,  but  turned 
her  back  upon  the  questioner,  as  if  addressing  herself  to  make 
answer  to  what  his  wife  might  demand. 

“We  keep  twenty  young  women  constantly  employed  in  the 
establishment,”  said  Madame. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


147 


“  Indeed,  ma’am,”  replied  Kate,  timidly. 

“  Yes  ;  and  some  of  ’em  demd  handsome,  too,”  said  the 
master. 

“  Mantalini !  ”  exclaimed  his  wife,  in  an  awful  voice. 

“My  senses’  idol  !”  said  Mantalini. 

“  Do  you  wish  to  break  my  heart  ?  ” 

“  Not  for  twenty  thousand  hemispheres  populated  with — 
with — with  little  ballet-dancers,”  replied  Mantalini,  in  a  poet¬ 
ical  strain. 

“  Then  you  will,  if  you  persevere  in  that  mode  of  speaking,” 
said  his  wife.  “  What  can  Mr.  Nickleby  think  when  he  hears 
you  ?  ” 

“  Oh  !  Nothing,  ma’am,  nothing,”  replied  Ralph.  “  I  know 
his  amiable  nature  and  yours — mere  little  remarks  that  give  a 
zest  to  your  daily  intercourse — lovers’  quarrels  that  add  sweet¬ 
ness  to  those  domestic  joys  which  promise  to  last  so  long — 
that’s  all ;  that’s  all.” 

OW  lovely  your  hair  do  curl  to-night,  miss  !  ”  said 
the  handmaiden.  “  I  declare  if  it  isn’t  a  pity  and  a 
shame  to  brush  it  out !  ” 

“  Hold  your  tongue  !  ”  replied  Miss  Squeers  wrathfully. 

Some  considerable  experience  prevented  the  girl  from  being 
at  all  surprised  at  any  outbreak  of  ill-temper  on  the  part  of 
Miss  Squeers.  Having  a  half  perception  of  what  had  occurred 
in  the  course  of  the  evening,  she  changed  her  mode  of  making 
herself  agreeable,  and  proceeded  on  the  indirect  track. 

“  Well,  I  couldn’t  help  saying,  miss,  if  you  was  to  kill  me  for 
it,”  said  the  attendant,  “  that  I  never  see  nobody  look  so  vul¬ 
gar  as  Miss  Price  this  night.” 

Miss  Squeers  sighed,  and  composed  herself  to  listen. 

“  I  know  it’s  very  wrong  in  me  to  say  so,  miss,”  continued 
the  girl,  delighted  to  see  the  impression  she  was  making, 
“Miss  Price  being  a  friend  of  your’n,  and  all ;  but  she  do  dress 
herself  out  so,  and  go  on  in  such  a  manner  to  get  noticed,  that 
■ — oh — well,  if  people  only  saw  themselves  !  ” 


148 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“What  do  you  mean,  Phib  ?”  asked  Miss  Squeers,  looking 
in  her  own  little  glass,  where,  like  most  of  us,  she  saw — not 
herself,  but  the  reflection  of  some  pleasant  image  in  her  own 
brain.  “  How  you  talk  !  ” 

“  Talk,  miss  !  It’s  enough  to  make  a  tom-cat  talk  French 
grammar,  only  to  see  how  she  tosses  her  head,”  replied  the 
handmaid. 


MR.  KEN  WIGS  was  on  the  point  of  repairing  to  Mr. 

Noggs’s  room,  to  demand  an  explanation,  and  had  in¬ 
deed  swallowed  a  preparatory  glass  of  punch,  with  great  inflex¬ 
ibility  and  steadiness  of  purpose,  when  the  attention  of  all 
present  was  diverted  by  a  new  and  terrible  surprise. 

This  was  nothing  less  than  the  sudden  pouring  forth  of  a 
rapid  succession  of  the  shrillest  and  most  piercing  screams, 
from  an  upper  story  ;  and  to  all  appearance  from  the  very  two- 
pair  back  in  which  the  infant  Kenwigs  was  at  that  moment  en¬ 
shrined.  They  were  no  sooner  audible,  than  Mrs.  Kenwigs, 
opining  that  a  strange  cat  had  come  in,  and  sucked  the  baby’s 
breath  while  the  girl  was  asleep,  made  for  the  door,  wringing 
her  hands  and  shrieking  dismally,  to  the  great  consternation  and 
confusion  of  the  company. 

“  Mr.  Kenwigs,  see  what  it  is ;  make  haste !  ”  cried  the 
sister,  laying  violent  hands  upon  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and  holding 
her  back  by  force.  “  Oh  don’t  twist  about  so,  dear,  or  I  can 
never  hold  you.” 

“My  baby,  my  blessed,  blessed,  blessed,  blessed  baby?” 
screamed  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  making  every  blessed  louder  than  the 
last.  “  My  own  darling,  sweet,  innocent  Lillyvick — Oh  let  me 
go  to  him.  Let  me  go-o-o-o  !  ” 

Pending  the  utterances  of  these  frantic  cries,  and  the  wails 
and  lamentations  of  the  four  little  girls,  Mr.  Kenwigs  rushed 
upstairs  to  the  room  whence  the  sounds  proceeded  ;  at  the 
door  of  which  he  encountered  Nicholas,  with  the  child  in  his 
arms,  who  darted  out  with  such  violence  that  the  anxious 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I49 


father  was  thrown  down  six  stairs,  and  alighted  on  the  nearest 
landing-place  before  he  had  found  time  to  open  his  mouth 
to  ask  what  was  the  matter. 

“  Don’t  be  alarmed,”  cried  Nicholas,  running  down  ;  “here 
it  is;  it’s  all  out,  it’s  all  over;  pray  compose  yourself;  there’s 
no  harm  done  ;  ”  and  with  these,  and  a  thousand  other  assur¬ 
ances,  he  delivered  the  baby  (whom  in  his  hurry  lie  had  car¬ 
ried  upside  down)  to  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  and  ran  back  to  assist 
Mr.  Kenwigs,  who  was  rubbing  his  head  very  hard,  and  looking 
much  bewildered  by  his  tumble. 

Reassured  by  this  cheering  intelligence,  the  company  in 
some  degree  recovered  from  their  fears,  which  had  been  pro¬ 
ductive  of  some  most  singular  instances  of  a  total  want  of 
presence  of  mind  :  thus,  the  bachelor  friend  had  for  a  long 
tjme  supported  in  his  arms  Mrs.  Kenwig’s  sister,  instead  of 
Mrs.  Kenwigs ;  and  the  worthy  Mr.  Lillyvick  had  been  actu¬ 
ally  seen,  in  the  perturbation  of  his  spirits,  to  kiss  Miss  Petow- 
ker  several  times,  behind  the  room  door,,  as  calmly  as  if 
nothing  distressing  were  going  forward. 

^  1\  /T  Y  cup  °f  happiness’s  sweetener,”  said  Mantalini,  ap- 

_VA  proaching  his  wife  with  a  penitent  air;  “will  you 
listen  to  me  for  two  minutes  ?” 

“  Oh  !  don’t  speak  to  me,”  replied  his  wife,  sobbing.  “  You 
have  ruined  me,  and  that’s  enough.” 

Mr.  Mantalini,  who  had  doubtless  well  considered  his  part, 
no  sooner  heard  these  words  pronounced  in  a  tone  of  grief  and 
severity,  than  he  recoiled  several  paces,  assumed  an  expression 
of  consuming  mental  agony,  rushed  headlong  from  the  room, 
and  was,  soon  afterwards,  heard  to  slam  the  door  of  an  upstairs 
dressing-room  with  great  violence. 

“  Miss  Nickleby,”  cried  Madame  Mantalini,  when  this 
sound  met  her  ear,  “  make  haste,  for  Heaven’s  sake  ;  he  will 
destroy  himself!  I  spoke  unkindly  to  him,  and  he  cannot 
bear  it  from  me.  Alfred,  my  darling  Alfred.” 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


15° 

With  such  exclamations,  she  hurried  upstairs,  followed  by 
Kate,  who,  although  she  did  not  quite  participate  in  the  fond 
wife’s  apprehensions,  was  a  little  flurried,  nevertheless.  The 
dressing-room  door  being  hastily  flung  open,  Mr.  Mantalini 
was  disclosed  to  view,  with  his  shirt-collar  symmetrically  thrown 
back  :  putting  a  fine  edge  to  a  breakfast  knife  by  means  of  his 
razor-strop. 

“  Ah !  ”  cried  Mr.  Mantalini,  “  Interrupted  !  ”  and  whisk 
went  the  breakfast  knife  into  Mr.  Mantalini’s  dressing-gown 
pocket,  while  Mr.  Mantalini’s  eyes  rolled  wildly,  and  his  hair 
floating  in  wild  disorder,  mingled  with  his  whiskers. 

“  Alfred,”  cried  his  wife,  flinging  her  arms  about  him,  “  I 
didn’t  mean  to  say  it,  I  didn’t  mean  to  say  it  !  ” 

“  Ruined  !  ”  cried  Mr.  Mantalini.  “  Have  I  brought  ruin 
upon  the  best  and  purest  creature  that  ever  blessed  a  dernni- 
tion  vagabond!  Demmit,  let  me  go.”  At  this  crisis  of  his 
ravings  Mr.  Mantalini  made  a  pluck  at  the  breakfast  knife,  and 
being  restrained  by  his  wife’s  grasp,  attempted  to  dash  his 
head  against  the  wall — taking  very  good  care  to  be  at  least  six 
feet  from  it. 

b  \  \  /  ERE  you  obliged  to  have  medical  attendance?”  in- 
VV  quired  Ralph. 

“Ay,  was  I,”  rejoined  Squeers,  “and  a  precious  bill  the 
medical  attendant  brought  in  too  ;  but  I  paid  it  though.” 

Balph  elevated  his  eyebrows  in  a  manner  which  might  be 
well  expressive  of  either  sympathy  or  astonishment.  Just  as 
the  beholder  was  pleased  to  take  it. 

“  Yes,  I  paid  it,  every  farthing',”  replied  Squeers,  who  seemed 
to  know  the  man  he  had  to  deal  with  too  well  to  suppose  that 
any  blinking  of  the  question  would  induce  him  to  subscribe  to¬ 
wards  the  expenses  ;  “  I  wasn’t  out  of  pocket  by  it  after  all, 
either.” 

“  No  ?  ”  said  Ralph. 

“  Not  a  halfpenny,”  replied  Squeers.  “The  fact  is,  we  have 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


151 


only  one  extra  with  our  boys,  and  that  is  for  doctors  when  re¬ 
quired — and  not  then,  unless  we’re  sure  of  our  customers.  Do 
you  see  ?  ” 

“  I  understand,”  said  Ralph. 

“Very  good,”  rejoined  Squeers.  “Then,  after  my  bill  was 
run  up,  we  picked  out  five  little  boys  (sons  of  small  tradesmen, 
as  was  sure  pay)  that  had  never  had  the  scarlet  fever,  and  we 
sent  one  to  a  cottage  where  they’d  got  it,  and  he  took  it,  and 
then  we  put  the  four  others  to  sleep  with  him,  and  they  took  it, 
and  then  the  doctor  came  and  attended  ’em  once  all  round, 
and  we  divided  my  total  among  ’em,  and  added  it  on  to  their 
little  bills,  and  the  parents  paid  it.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ” 

“And  a  good  plan  too,”  said  Ralph,  eying  the  schoolmaster 
stealthily. 

“I  believe  you,”  rejoined  Squeers.  “We  always  do  it. 
Why,  when  Mrs.  Squeers  was  brought  to  bed  with  little  Wack- 
ford  here,  we  ran  the  whooping-cough  through  half  a  dozen 
boys,  and  charged  her  expenses  among  ’em,  monthly  nurse  in¬ 
cluded.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ” 

Ralph  never  laughed,  but  on  this  occasion  he  produced  the 
nearest  approach  to  it  that  he  could,  and  waiting  until  Mr. 
Squeers  had  enjoyed  the  professional  joke  to  his  heart’s  con¬ 
tent,  inquired  what  had  brought  him  to  town. 


ON’T  missis  me,  ma’am,  if  you  please,”  returned 


Miss  Squeers,  sharply.  “  I’ll  not  bear  it.  Is  this 


the  hend — ” 

“  Dang  it  a’,”  cried  John  Browdie,  impatiently.  “  Say  thee 
say  out,  Fanny,  and  mak  sure  it’s  the  end,  and  dinnot  ask  no¬ 
body  whether  it  is  or  not.” 

“  Thanking  you  for  your  advice  which  was  not  required,  Mr. 
Browdie,”  returned  Miss  Squeers,  with  laborious  politeness, 
“have  the  goodness  not  to  presume  to  meddle  with  my  Chris¬ 
tian  name.  Even  my  pity  shall  never  make  me  forget  what’s 
due  to  myself,  Mr.  Browdie.  ’Tilda,”  said  Miss  Squeers,  with 


152 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


such  a  sudden  accession  of  violence  that  John  started  in  his 
boots,  “  I  throw  you  off  forever,  miss.  I  abandon  you.  I 
renounce  you.  I  wouldn’t,”  cried  Miss  Squeers  in  a  solemn 
voice,  “have  a  child  named  ’Tilda,  not  to  save  it  from  its 
grave.” 

“As  for  the  matter  o’  that,”  observed  John,  “it’ll  be  time 
eneaf  to  think  aboot  neaming  of  it  when  it  cooms.” 

“John  !  ”  interposed  his  wife,  “  don’t  tease  her.” 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE. 

66  \  /T  -^GS  ?  ”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  “  don’t  you  know  me  ? 

1V1  Sim,  you  know — Sim — ” 

“  Oh  !  what  about  him  ?  ”  cried  Miggs,  clasping  her  hands. 
“  Is  he  in  any  danger  ?  Is  he  in  the  midst  of  flames  and 
blazes  !  Oh  gracious,  gracious !  ” 

“Why,  I’m  here,  an’t  I?”  rejoined  Mr.  Tappertit,  knock¬ 
ing  himself  on  the  breast.  “  Don’t  you  see  me  ?  What  a  fool 
you  are,  Miggs  ?  ” 

“  There  !  ”  cried  Miggs,  unmindful  of  this  compliment. 
“Why — so  it — Goodness,  what  is  the  meaning  of — If  you 
please  mini  here’s —  ” 

“No,  no  !”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  standing  on  tiptoe,  as  if  by 
that  means  he,  in  the  street,  were  any  nearer  being  able  to 
stop  the  mouth  of  Miggs  in  the  garret.  “Don’t ! — I’ve  been 
out  without  leave,  and  something  or  another’s  the  matter  with 
the  lock.  Come  down,  and  undo  the  shop-window,  that  I  may 
get  in  that  way.” 

“  I  dursn’t  do  it,  Simmun,”  cried  Miggs — for  that  was  her 
pronunciation  of  his  Christian  name.  “  I  dursn’t  do  it, 
indeed.  You  know  as  well  as  anybody,  how  particular  I  am. 
And  to  come  down  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  the  house  is 
wrapped  in  slumbers  and  weiled  in  obscurity.”  And  there  she 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


I53 


stopped  and  shivered,  for  her  modesty  caught  cold  at  the  very 
thought. 

“But  Miggs,”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  getting  under  the  lamp, 
that  she  might  see  his  eyes.  “My  darling  Miggs — ” 

Miggs  screamed  slightly. 

“ — That  I  love  so  much,  and  never  can  help  thinking  of,” 
and  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  use  he  made  of  his  eyes 
when  he  said  this — “  do — for  my  sake,  do.” 

“Oh  Simmun,”  cried  Miggs,  “this  is  worse  than  all.  I 
know  if  I  come  down,  you’ll  go,  and — ” 

“  And  what,  my  precious  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Tappertit. 

“  And  try,”  said  Miggs,  hysterically,  “  to  kiss  me,  or  some 
such  dreadfulness  ;  I  know  you  will !” 

“I  swear  I  won’t,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  with  remarkable 
earnestness.  “  Upon  my  soul  I  won’t.  It’s  getting  broad 
day,  and  the  watchman’s  waking  up.  Angelic  Miggs  !  If 
you’ll  only  come  and  let  me  in,  I  promise  you  faithfully  and 
truly  I  won’t.” 

^T)ARNABY,”  said  the  locksmith,  after  a  hasty  but  care- 
ful  inspection,  “  this  man  is  not  dead,  but  he  has  a 
wound  in  his  side,  and  is  in  a  fainting-fit.” 

“I  know  him,  I  know  him!”  cried  Barnaby,  clapping  his 
hands. 

“  Know  him  ?  ”  repeated  the  locksmith. 

“  Hush  !  ”  said  Barnaby,  laying  his  fingers  on  his  lips.  “  He 
went  out  to-day  a-wooing.  I  wouldn’t  for  a  light  guinea  that 
he  should  never  go  a-wooing  again,  for,  if  he  did,  some  eyes 
would  grow  dim  that  are  now  as  bright  as — see,  when  I  talk  of 
eyes,  the  stars  come  out !  Whose  eyes  are  they  ?  If  they  are 
’angels’  eyes,  why  do  they  look  down  here,  and  see  good  men 
hurt,  and  only  wink  and  sparkle  all  the  night?  ” 

HERE  again  the  raven  was  in  a  highly  reflective  state ; 

walking  up  and  down  when  he  had  dined,  with  an  air 
of  elderly  complacency,  which  was  strongly  suggestive  of  his 
7* 


i54 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


having  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails  ;  and  appearing  to  read 
the  tombstones  with  a  very  critical  taste.  Sometimes,  after  a 
long  inspection  of  an  epitaph,  he  would  strop  his  beak  upon 
the  grave  to  which  it  referred,  and  cry  in  his  hoarse  tones, 
“  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil  !”  but  whether  he  ad¬ 
dressed  his  observations  to  any  supposed  person  below,  or 
merely  threw  them  off  as  a  general  remark,  is  matter  of  uncer¬ 
tainty. 

L(*r  |  "'HEY  must  have  been  fond  of  you,”  remarked  Mr. 

JL  Tappertit,  looking  at  him  sideways. 

“I  don’t  know  that  they  was  exactly  fond  of  me,”  said  Den¬ 
nis,  with  a  little  hesitation,  “but  they  all  had  me  near  ’em 
when  they  departed.  I  come  in  for  their  wardrobes  too.  This 
very  handkercher  that  you  see  round  my  neck  belonged  to 
him  that  I’ve  been  speaking  of — him  as  did  that  likeness.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  glanced  at  the  article  referred  to,  and  ap¬ 
peared  to  think  that  the  deceased’s  ideas  of  dress  were  of  a 
peculiar  and  by  no  means  an  expensive  kind.  He  made  no 
remark  upon  the  point,  however,  and  suffered  his  mysterious 
companion  to  proceed  without  interruption. 

“  These  smalls,”  said  Dennis,  rubbing  his  legs  ;  “  these  very 
smalls — they  belonged  to  a  friend  of  mine  that’s  left  off  sich  in¬ 
cumbrances  forever  :  this  coat  too — I’ve  often  walked  behind 
this  coat,  in  the  streets,  and  wondered  whether  it  would  ever 
come  to  me ;  this  pair  of  shoes  have  danced  a  hornpipe  for 
another  man,  afore  my  eyes,  full  half  a  dozen  times  at  least : 
and  as  to  my  hat,”  he  said,  taking  it  off,  and  whirling  it  round 
upon  his  fist — “  Lord  !  I’ve  seen  this  hat  go  up  Holborn  on 
the  box  of  a  hackney-coach — ah,  many  and  many  a  day  !  ” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  their  old  wearers  are  all  dead,  I 
hope?”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  falling  a  little  distance  from  him, 
as  he  spoke. 

“  Every  one  of  ’em,”  replied  Dennis.  “  Every  man,  Jack  !  ” 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES. 


155 


THE  burning  pile,  revealing  rooms  and  passages  red-hot, 
through  gaps  made  in  the  crumbling  walls  ;  the  tributary- 
fires  that  licked  the  outer  bricks  and  stones,  with  their  long 
forked  tongues,  and  ran  up  to  meet  the  glowing  mass  within ; 
the  shining  of  the  flames  upon  the  villains  who  looked  on  and 
fed  them ;  the  roaring  of  the  angry  blaze,  so  bright  and  high 
that  it  seemed  in  its  rapacity  to  have  swallowed  up  the  very 
smoke  ;  the  living  flakes  the  wind  bore  rapidly  away  and  hur¬ 
ried  on  with,  like  a  storm  of  fiery  snow ;  the  noiseless  breaking 
of  great  beams  of  wood,  which  fell  like  feathers  on  the  heap  of 
ashes,  and  crumbled  in  the  very  act  to  sparks  and  powder ; 
the  lurid  tinge  that  overspread  the  sky,  and  the  darkness,  very 
deep  by  contrast,  which  prevailed  around  ;  the  exposure  to  the 
coarse,  common  gaze,  of  every  little  nook  which  usages  of 
home  had  made  a  sacred  place,  and  the  destruction  by  rude 
hands  of  every  little  household  favorite  which  old  associations 
made  a  dear  and  precious  thing;  all  this  taking  place — not 
among  pitying  looks  and  friendly  murmurs  of  compassion,  but 
brutal  shouts  and  exultations,  which  seemed  to  make  the  very 
rats  who  stood  by  the  old  house  too  long,  creatures  with  some 
claim  upon  the  pity  and  regard  of  those  its  roof  had  sheltered — 
combined  to  form  a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who 
saw  it  and  were  not  actors  in  the  work,  so  long  as  life  endured. 

THE  mob  gathering  round  Lord  Mansfield’s  house,  had 
called  on  those  within  to  open  the  door,  and  receiving  no 
reply  (for  Lord  and  Lady  Mansfield  were  at  that  moment  es¬ 
caping  by  the  backway),  forced  an  entrance  according  to  their 
usual  custom.  That  they  then  began  to  demolish  the  house 
with  great  fury,  and  setting  fire  to  it  in  several  parts,  involved 
in  a  common  ruin  the  whole  of  the  costly  furniture,  the  plate 
and  jewels,  a  beautiful  gallery  of  pictures,  the  rarest  collection 
of  manuscripts  ever  possessed  by  any  one  private  person  in  the 
world,  and  worse  than  all,  because  nothing  could  replace  this 
loss,  the  great  Law  Library,  on  almost  every  page  of  which 


IS6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


were  notes  in  the  Judge’s  own  hand,  of  inestimable  value — be¬ 
ing  the  results  of  the  study  and  experience  of  his  whole  life. 
That  while  they  were  howling  and  exulting  round  the  fire,  a 
■  troop  of  soldiers,  with  a  magistrate  among  them,  came  up,  and 
being  too  late  (for  the  mischief  was  by  that  time  done),  began  to 
disperse  the  crowd.  That  the  riot  act  being  read,  and  the  crowd 
still  resisting,  the  soldiers  received  orders  to  fire,  and  levelling 
their  -muskets  shot  dead  at  the  first  discharge  six  men  and  a 
woman,  and  wounded  many  persons ;  and  loading  again  di¬ 
rectly,  fired  another  volley,  but  over  the  people’s  heads  it  was 
supposed,  as  none  were  seen  to  fall.  That  thereupon,  and 
daunted  by  the  shrieks  and  tumult,  the  crowd  began  to  dis¬ 
perse,  and  the  soldiers  went  away,  leaving  the  killed  and 
wounded  on  the  ground :  which  they  had  no  sooner  done  than 
the  rioters  came  back  again,  and  taking  up  the  dead  bodies, 
and  the  wounded  people,  formed  into  a  rude  procession,  hav¬ 
ing  the  bodies  in  the  front.  That  in  this  order  they  paraded 
off  with  a  horrible  merriment ;  fixing  weapons  in  the  dead 
men’s  hands  to  make  them  look  as  if  alive ;  and  preceded  by 
a  fellow  ringing  Lord  Mansfield’s  dinner-bell  with  all  his  might. 

IF  a  roc,  an  eagle,  a  griffin,  a  flying  elephant,  a  winged  sea¬ 
horse,  had  suddenly  appeared,  and,  taking  him  on  its  back, 
carried  him  bodily  into  the  heart  of  the  “  Salwanners,”  it  would 
have  been  to  him  as  an  everyday  occurrence,  in  comparison 
with  what  he  now  beheld.  To  be  sitting  quietly  by,  seeing  and 
hearing  these  things ;  to  be  completely  overlooked,  unnoticed, 
and  disregarded,  while  his  son  and  a  young  lady  were  talking 
to  each  other  in  the  most  impassioned  manner,  kissing  each 
other,  and  making  themselves  in  all  respects  perfectly  at  home ; 
was  a  position  so  tremendous,  so  inexplicable,  so  utterly  be¬ 
yond  the  widest  range  of  his  capacity  of  comprehension,  that 
he  fell  into  a  lethargy  of  wonder,  and  could  no  more  rouse  him¬ 
self  than  an  enchanted  sleeper  in  the  first  year  of  his  fairy  lease, 
a  century  long. 


PECULIAR  INCIDENCES.  1 5  7 

“Father,”  said  Joe,  presenting  Dolly.  “You  know  who 
this  is  ?  ” 

Mr.  Willet  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  son,  then  back 
again  at  Dolly,  and  then  made  an  ineffectual  effort  to  extract 
a  whiff  from  his  pipe,  which  had  gone  out  long  ago. 

“Say  a  word,  father,  if  it’s  only  ‘how  d’ye  do/  ”  urged  Joe. 

“  Certainly,  Joseph,”  answered  Mr.  Willet.  “  Oh  yes  1 
Why  not  ?  ” 

“To  be  sure,”  said  Joe.  “  Why  not  ? ” 

“Ah!”  replied  his  father.  “Why  not?”  and  with  this  re¬ 
mark,  which  he  uttered  in  a  low  voice  as  though  he  were  dis¬ 
cussing  some  grave  question  with  himself,  he  used  the  little  fin¬ 
ger — if  any  of  his  fingers  can  be  said  to  have  come  under  that 
denomination — of  his  right  hand  as  a  tobacco-stopper,  and  was 
silent  again. 

And  so  he  sat  for  half  an  hour  at  least,  although  Dolly,  in 
the  most  endearing  of  manners,  hoped  a  dozen  times,  that  he 
was  not  angry  with  her.  So  he  sat  for  half  an  hour,  quite 
motionless,  and  looking  all  the  while  like  nothing  so  much  as 
a  great  Dutch  Pin  or  Skittle.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period, 
he  suddenly,  and  without  the  least  notice,  burst  (to  the  great 
consternation  of  the  young  people)  into  a  very  loud  and  very 
short  laugh ;  and  repeating  “  Certainly,  Joseph.  Oh  yes  ! 
Why  not  ?  ”  went  out  for  a  walk. 


i5» 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 

- o - 

CHAPTER  III. 

FROM  THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

^  |  ''IIE  child  was  closely  followed  by  an  elderly  man  of  re- 
X  markably  hard  features  and  forbidding  aspect,  and  so 
low  in  stature  as  to  be  quite  a  dwarf,  though  his  head  and  face 
were  large  enough  for  the  body  of  a  giant.  His  black  eyes 
were  restless,  sly,  and  cunning  ;  his  mouth  and  chin,  bristly 
with  the  stubble  of  a  coarse,  hard  beard ;  and  his  complexion 
was  one  of  that  kind  which  never  looks  clean  or  wholesome. 
But  what  added  most  to  the  grotesque  expression  of  his  face 
was  a  ghastly  smile,  which,  appearing  to  be  the  mere  result 
of  habit  and  to  have  no  connection  with  any  mirthful  or  com¬ 
placent  feeling,  constantly  revealed  the  few  discolored  fangs 
that  were  yet  scattered  in  his  mouth,  and  gave  him  the  aspect 
of  a  panting  dog.  Elis  dress  consisted  of  a  large  high-crowned 
hat,  a  worn  dark  suit,  a  pair  of  capacious  shoes,  and  a  dirty 
white  neckerchief  sufficiently  limp  and  crumpled  to  disclose 
the  greater  portion  of  his  wiry  throat.  Such  hair  as  he  had 
was  of  a  grizzled  black,  cut  short  and  straight  upon  his  temples, 
and  hanging  in  a  frowzy  fringe  about  his  ears.  His  hands, 
which  were  of  a  rough  coarse  grain,  were  very  dirty ;  his  finger¬ 
nails  were  crooked,  long,  and  yellow. 

MISS  SALLY  BRASS,  then,  was  a  lady  of  thirty-five  or 
thereabouts,  of  a  gaunt  and  bony  figure,  and  a  resolute 
bearing,  which,  if  it  repressed  the  softer  emotions  of  love,  and 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


159 


kept  admirers  at  a  distance,  certainly  inspired  a  feeling  akin  to 
awe  in  the  breasts  of  those  male  strangers  who  had  the  happi¬ 
ness  to  approach  her.  In  face  she  bore  a  striking  resemblance 
to  her  brother,  Sampson — so  exact,  indeed,  was  the  likeness 
between  them,  that  had  it  consorted  with  Miss  Brass’s  maiden 
modesty  and  gentle  womanhood  to  have  assumed  her  brother’s 
clothes  in  a  frolic  and  sat  down  beside  him,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  the  oldest  friend  of  the  family  to  determine  which 
was  Sampson  and  which  Sally,  especially  as  the  lady  carried 
upon  her  upper  lip  certain  reddish  demonstrations,  which,  if  the 
imagination  had  been  assisted  by  her  attire,  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  a  beard.  These  were,  however,  in  all  probability, 
nothing  more  than  eyelashes  in  a  wrong  place,  as  the  eyes  of 
Miss  Brass  were  free  quite  from  any  such  natural  impertinen- 
cies.  In  complexion  Miss  Brass  was  sallow — rather  a  dirty 
sallow,  so  to  speak— but  this  hue  was  agreeably  relieved  by  the 
healthy  glow  which  mantled  in  the  extreme  tip  of  her  laughing 
nose.  Her  voice  was  exceedingly  impressive — deep  and  rich 
in  quality,  and,  once  heard,  not  easily  forgotten.  Her  usual 
dress  was  a  green  gown,  in  color  not  unlike  the  curtain  of  the 
office-window,  made  tight  to  the  figure,  and  terminating  at  the 
throat,  where  it  was  fastened  behind  by  a  peculiarly  large  and 
massive  button.  Feeling,  no  doubt,  that  simplicity  and  plain¬ 
ness  are  the  soul  of  elegance,  Miss  Brass  wore  no  collar  or 
kerchief  except  upon  her  head,  which  was  invariably  ornament¬ 
ed  with  a  brown  gauze  scarf,  like  the  wing  of  the  fabled  vam¬ 
pire,  and  which,  twisted  into  any  form  that  happened  to  suggest 
itself,  formed  an  easy  and  graceful  head-dress. 

Such  was  Miss  Brass  in  person.  In  mind,  she  was  of  strong 
and  vigorous  turn,  having  from  her  earliest  youth  devoted  her¬ 
self  with  uncommon  ardor  to  the  study  of  the  law  ;  not  wasting 
her  speculations  upon  its  eagle  flights,  which  are  rare ;  but 
tracing  it  attentively  through  all  the  slippery  and  eel-like  crawl¬ 
ings  in  which  it  commonly  pursues  its  way.  Nor  had  she,  like 
many  persons  of  great  intellect,  confined  herself  to  theory,  or 
stopped  short  where  practical  usefulness  begins ;  inasmuch  as 


i6o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


she  could  engross,  fair-copy,  fill  lip  printed  forms  with  perfect 
accuracy,  and,  in  short,  transact  any  ordinary  duty  of  the  office 
down  to  pouncing  a  skin  of  parchment  or  mending  a  pen.  It 
is  difficult  to  understand  how,  possessed  of  these  combined  at¬ 
tractions,  she  should  remain  Miss  Brass ;  but  whether  she  had 
steeled  her  heart  against  mankind,  or  whether  those  who  might 
have  wooed  and  won  her,  were  deterred  by  fears  that,  being 
learned  in  the  law,  she  might  have  too  near  her  fingers’  ends 
those  particular  statutes  which  regulate  what  are  familiarly 
termed  actions  for  breach,  certain  it  is  that  she  was  still  in  a 
state  of  celibacy,  and  still  in  daily  occupation  of  her  old  stool 
opposite  to  that  of  her  brother  Sampson.  And  equally  certain 
it  is,  by  the  way,  that  between  these  two  stools  a  great  many 
people  had  come  to  the  ground. 


FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

DOMBEY  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Son  lay  tucked  up 
warm  in  a  little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed  on  a  low 
settee  immediately  in  front  of  the  fire  and  close  to  it,  as  if  his 
constitution  were  analogous  to  that  of  a  muffin,  and  it  was  es¬ 
sential  to  toast  him  brown  while  he  was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age.  Son  about 
eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather  bald,  rather  red, 
and  though  a  handsome,  well-made  man,  too  stern  and  pom¬ 
pous  in  appearance  to  be  prepossessing.  Son  was  very  bald, 
and  very  red,  and  though  (of  course)  an  undeniably  fine 
infant,  somewhat  crushed  and  spotty  in  his  general  effect,  as 
yet.  On  the  brow  of  Dombey,  Time  and  his  brother  Care  had 
set  some  marks,  as  on  a  tree  that  wTas  to  come  down  in  good 
time — remorseless  twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their  hu¬ 
man  forests,  notching  as  they  go — while  the  countenance  of 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


161 


Son  was  crossed  and  recrossed  with  a  thousand  little  creases, 
which  the  same  deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in  smoothing 
out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat  part  of  his  scythe,  as  a  prep¬ 
aration  of  the  surface  for  his  deeper  operations. 


npo  record  of  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way  af- 
X  fected  by  this  intelligence,  would  be  to  do  him  an  injus¬ 
tice.  He  was  not  a  man  of  whom  it  could  properly  be  said 
that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked ;  but  he  certainly  had  a 
sense  within  him,  that  if  his  wife  should  sicken  and  decay,  he 
would  be  very  sorry,  and  that  he  would  find  a  something  gone 
from  among  his  plate  and  furniture,  and  other  household  pos¬ 
sessions,  which  was  well  worth  the  having,  and  could  not  be 
lost  without  sincere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a  cool,  busi¬ 
ness-like,  gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret,  no  doubt. 


THE  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a  long,  lean  figure, 
wearing  such  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to  have 
been  made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  “ fast-colors”  originally, 
and  to  have  by  little  and  little  washed  out.  But  for  this  she 
might  have  been  described  as  the  very  pink  of  general  propi¬ 
tiation  and  politeness.  From  a  long  habit  of  listening  admira¬ 
bly  to  everything  that  was  said  in  her  presence,  and  looking  at 
the  speakers  as  if  she  were  mentally  engaged  in  taking  off  im¬ 
pressions  of  their  images  upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the 
same  but  with  life,  her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side. 
Her  hands  had  contracted  a  spasmodic  habit  of  raising  them¬ 
selves  of  their  own  accord  as  in  involuntary  admiration.  Her 
eyes  were  liable  to  a  similar  affection.  She  had  the  softest 
voice  that  ever  was  heard ;  and  her  nose,  stupendously  aquiline, 
had  a  little  knob  in  the  very  centre  or  key-stone  of  the  bridge, 
whence  it  tended  downwards  towards  her  face,  as  in  an  invin¬ 
cible  determination  never  to  turn  up  at  anything. 


1 62 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


*  J  ^HIS  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchinwas  a  marvellous  ill-favored, 
JL  ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a  stooping  figure,  with  a 
mottled  face,  like  bad  marble,  a  hook  nose,  and  a  hard  gray 
eye,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  hammered  at  on 
an  anvil  without  sustaining  any  injury.  Forty  years  at  least 
had  elapsed  since  the  Peruvian  mines  had  been  the  death  of 
Mr.  Pipchin ;  but  his  relict  still  wore  black  bombazine,  of  such 
a  lustreless,  deep,  dead,  sombre  shade,  that  gas  itself  couldn’t 
light  her  up  after  dark,  and  her  presence  was  a  quencher  to 
any  number  of  candles.  She  was  generally  spoken  of  as  “  a 
great  manager”  of  children  ;  and  the  secret  of  her  management 
was,  to  give  them  everything  that  they  didn’t  like,  and  nothing 
that  they  did — which  was  found  to  sweeten  their  dispositions 
very  much.  She  was  such  a  bitter  old  lady,  that  one  was 
tempted  to  believe  there  had  been  some  mistake  in  the  appli¬ 
cation  of  the  Peruvian  machinery,  and  that  all  her  waters  of 
gladness  and  milk  of  human  kindness  had  been  pumped  out 
dry,  instead  of  the  mines. 


FROM  OLIVER  TWIST. 


N'  OW,  if,  during  this  brief  period,  Oliver  had  been  sur¬ 
rounded  by  careful  grandmothers,  anxious  aunts,  expe¬ 
rienced  nurses,  and  doctors  of  profound  wisdom,  he  would 
most  inevitably  and  indubitably  have  been  killed  in  no  time. 
There  being  nobody  by,  however,  but  a  pauper  old  woman, 
who  was  rendered  rather  misty  by  an  unwonted  allowance  of 
beer,  and  a  parish  surgeon  who  did  such  matters  by  contract, 
Oliver  and  Nature  fought  out  the  point  between  them.  The 
result  was  that,  after  a  few  struggles,  Oliver  breathed,  sneezed, 
and  proceeded  to  advertise  to  the  inmates  of  the  workhouse  the 
fact  of  a  new  burden  having  been  imposed  upon  the  parish,  by 
setting  up  as  loud  a  cry  as  could  reasonably  have  been  expect¬ 
ed  from  a  male  infant  who  had  not  been  possessed  of  that  very 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS.  1 63 

useful  appendage,  a  voice,  for  a  much  longer  space  of  time 
than  three  minutes  and  a  quarter. 


OLIVER  TWIST’S  ninth  birthday  found  him  a  pale,  thin 
child,  somewhat  diminutive  in  stature,  and  decidedly 
small  in  circumference.  But  nature  or  inheritance  had  im¬ 
planted  a  good,  sturdy  spirit  in  Oliver’s  breast.  It  had  had 
plenty  of  room  to  expand,  thanks  to  the  spare  diet  of  the  estab¬ 
lishment  ;  and  perhaps  to  this  circumstance  may  be  attributed 
his  having  any  ninth  birthday  at  all.  Be  this  as  it  may  how¬ 
ever,  it  was  his  ninth  birthday ;  and  he  was  keeping  it  in  the 
coal-cellar,  with  a  select  party  of  two  other  young  gentlemen, 
who,  after  participating  with  him  in  a  sound  thrashing,  had 
been  locked  up  therein  for  atrociously  presuming  to  be  hungry, 
when  Mrs.  Mann,  the  good  lady  of  the  house,  was  unexpectedly 
startled  by  the  apparition  of  Mr.  Bumble,  the  beadle,  striving  to 
undo  the  wicket  of  the  garden  gate. 

66  A  ND  now  about  business,”  said  the  beadle,  taking  out 
ii  a  leathern  pocket-book.  “  The  child  that  was  half- 
baptized  ‘  Oliver  Twist,’  is  nine  year  old  to-day.” 

“  Bless  him  !  ”  interposed  Mrs.  Mann,  inflaming  her  left  eye 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

“  And  notwithstanding  a  offered  reward  of  ten  pound,  which 
was  afterward  increased  to  twenty  pound.  Notwithstanding 
the  most  superlative,  and  I  may  say  supernat’ral  exertions  on 
the  part  of  this  parish,”  said  Bumble,  “we  have  never  been 
able  to  discover  who  is  his  father,  or  what  was  his  mother’s  set¬ 
tlement,  name,  or  con — dition.” 

Mrs.  Mann  raised  her  hands  in  astonishment ;  but  added, 
after  a  moment’s  reflection,  “  How  comes  he  to  have  any  name 
at  all,  then  ?  ” 

The  beadle  drew  himself  up  with  great  pride,  and  said,  “  I 
inwented  it.” 


164 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“You,  Mr.  Bumble?” 

“  I,  Mrs.  Mann.  We  name  our  foundlings  in  alphabetical 
order.  The  last  was  a  S — i  Swubble  ’  I  named  him.  This  was 
a  T — 1  Twist’  I  named  him.  The  next  one  as  comes  will  be 
4  Unwin/  and  the  next  ‘  Vilkins.’  I  have  got  names  ready¬ 
made  to  the  end  of  the  alphabet,  and  all  the  way  through  it 
again,  when  we  come  to  Z.” 

“Why,  you’re  quite  a  literary  character,  sir!”  said  Mrs. 
Mann. 

R.  FANG  was  a  lean,  long-backed,  stiff-necked,  middle- 


1V1  sized  man,  with  no  great  quantity  of  hair,  and  what  he 
had,  growing  on  the  back  and  sides  of  his  head.  His  face  was 
stern,  and  much  flushed.  If  he  were  really  not  in  the  habit  of 
drinking  rather  more  than  was  exactly  good  for  him,  he  might 
have  brought  an  action  against  his  countenance  for  libel,  and 
have  recovered  heavy  damages. 


FROM  OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND 


r  I  "'HE  existing  R.  Wilfer  was  a  poor  clerk.  So  poor  a 
X  clerk,  though  having  a  limited  salary  and  an  unlimited 
family,  that  he  had  never  yet  attained  the  modest  object  of  his 
ambition ;  which  was,  to  wear  a  complete  new  suit  of  clothes, 
hat  and  boots  included,  at  one  time.  His  black  hat  was 
brown  before  he  could  afford  a  coat,  his  pantaloons  were  white 
at  the  seams  and  knees  before  he  could  buy  a  pair  of  boots, 
his  boots  had  worn  out  before  he  could  treat  himself  to  new 
pantaloons,  and,  by  the  time  he  worked  round  to  the  hat 
again,  that  shining  modern  article  roofed  in  an  ancient  ruin  of 
various  periods. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


i65 


F  an  ungainly  make  was  Sloppy.  Too  much  of  him 


longwise,,  too  little  of  him  broadwise,  and  too  many 
sharp  angles  of  him  anglewise.  One  of  those  shambling  male 
human  creatures,  born  to  be  indiscreetly  candid  in  the  revela¬ 
tion  of  buttons  ;  every  button  he  had  about  him  glaring  at  the 
public  to  a  quite  preternatural  extent.  A  considerable  capital 
of  knee  and  elbow  and  wrist  and  ankle,  had  Sloppy,  and  he 
didn’t  know  how  to  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  advantage,  but 
was  always  investing  it  in  wrong  securities,  and  so  getting  him¬ 
self  into  embarrassed  circumstances.  Full-Private  Number 
One  in  the  Awkward  Squad  of  the  rank  and  file  of  life,  was 
Sloppy,  and  yet  had  his  glimmering  notions  of  standing  true  to 
the  Colors. 


WHETHER  this  young  gentleman  (for  he  was  but  three- 
and-twenty)  combined  with  the  miserly  vice  of  an  old 
man  any  of  the  open-handed  vices  of  a  young  one,  was  a 
moot  point ;  so  very  honorably  did  he  keep  his  own  counsel. 
He  was  sensible  of  the  value  of  appearances  as  an  investment, 
and  liked  to  dress  well ;  but  he  drove  a  bargain  for  every 
movable  about  him,  from  the  coat  on  his  back  to  the  china 
on  his  breakfast  table ;  and  every  bargain,  by  representing 
somebody’s  ruin  or  somebody’s  loss,  acquired  a  peculiar 
charm  for  him.  It  was  a  part  of  his  avarice  to  take,  within 
narrow  bounds,  long  odds  at  races ;  if  he  won,  he  drove 
harder  bargains  ;  if  he  lost,  he  half  starved  himself  until  next 
time.  Why  money  should  be  so  precious  to  an  Ass  too  dull 
and  mean  to  exchange  it  for  any  other  satisfaction,  is  strange  : 
but  there  is  no  animal  so  sure  to  get  laden  with  it,  as  the  Ass 
who  sees  nothing  written  on  the  face  of  the  earth  and  sky  but 
the  three  letters  L.  S.  D. — not  Luxury,  Sensuality,  Dissolute¬ 
ness,  which  they  often  stand  for,  but  the  three  dry  letters. 
Your  concentrated  Fox  is  seldom  comparable  to  your  concen¬ 
trated  Ass  in  money-breeding. 


1 66 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


E’S  enough  to  break  his  mother’s  heart,  is  this  boy,” 
said  Miss  Wren,  half  appealing  to  Eugene.  “  I 
wish  I  had  never  brought  him  up.  Ele’d  be  sharper  than  a 
serpent’s  tooth,  if  he  wasn’t  as  dull  as  ditch  water.  Look  at 
him.  There’s  a  pretty  object  for  a  parent’s  eyes  !  ” 

Assuredly,  in  his  worse  than  swinish  state  (for  swine  at  least 
fatten  on  their  guzzling,  and  make  themselves  good  to  eat),  he 
was  a  pretty  object  for  any  eyes. 

“A  muddling  and  a  swipey  old  child,”  said  Miss  Wren, 
rating  him  with  great  severity,  “  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  pre¬ 
served  in  the  liquor  that  destroys  him,  and  put  in  a  great  glass 
bottle  as  a  sight  for  other  swipey  children  of  his  own  pattern, — 
if  he  has  no  consideration  for  his  liver,  has  he  none  for  his 
mother  ?  ” 


FROM  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

HOW  Alexander  wept  when  he  had  no  more  worlds  to 
conquer,  everybody  knows — or  has  some  reason  to 
know  by  this  time,  the  matter  having  been  rather  frequently 
mentioned.  My  Lady  Dedlock,  having  conquered  her  world, 
fell,  not  into  the  melting,  but  rather  into  the  freezing  mood. 
An  exhausted  composure,  a  worn-out  placidity,  an  equanimity 
of  fatigue  not  to  be  ruffled  by  interest  or  satisfaction,  are  the 
trophies  of  her  victory.  She  is  perfectly  well-bred.  If  she 
could  be  translated  to  Heaven  to-morrow,  she  might  be  ex¬ 
pected  to  ascend  without  any  rapture. 


MRS.  JELLYBY  had  very  good  hair,  but  was  too  much 
occupied  with  her  African  duties  to  brush  it.  The  shawl 
in  which  she  had  been  loosely  muffled,  dropped  on  to  her  chair 
when  she  advanced  to  us  ;  and  as  she  turned  to  resume  her 
seat,  we  could  not  help  noticing  that  her  dress  didn’t  nearly 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS.  l6j 

meet  up  the  back,  and  that  the  open  space  was  railed  across 
with  a  lattice-work  of  stay-lace — like  a  summer-house. 

^QHE  is  like  the  morning,”  he  said.  “With  that  golden 
hair,  those  blue  eyes,  and  that  fresh  bloom  on  her 
cheek,  she  is  like  the  summer  morning.  The  birds  here  will 
mistake  her  for  it.  We  will  not  call  such  a  lovely  young 
creature  as  that,  who  is  a  joy  to  all  mankind,  an  orphan.  She 
is  the  child  of  the  universe. 

IN  his  lifetime,  and  likewise  in  the  period  of  Snagsby’s 
“  time  ”  of  seven  long  years,  there  dwelt  with  Peffer,  in  the 
same  law-stationering  premises,  a  niece — a  short,  shrewd  niece, 
something  too  violently  compressed  about  the  waist,  and  with  a 
sharp  nose  like  a  sharp  autumn  evening,  inclining  to  be  frosty 
towards  the  end.  The  Cook’s-Courtiers  had  a  rumor  flying 
among  them,  that  the  mother  of  this  niece  did,  in  her  daugh¬ 
ter’s  childhood,  moved  by  too  jealous  a  solicitude  that  her  fig¬ 
ure  should  approach  perfection,  lace  her  up  every  morning 
with  her  maternal  foot  against  the  bedpost  for  a  stronger  hold 
and  purchase ;  and  further,  that  she  exhibited  internally  pints 
of  vinegar  and  lemon-juice :  which  acids,  they  held,  had 
mounted  to  the  nose  and  temper  of  the  patient.  With  which¬ 
soever  of  the  many  tongues  of  Rumor  this  frothy  report  origi¬ 
nated,  it  either  never  reached,  or  never  influenced,  the  ears  of 
young  Snagsby;  who,  having  wooed  and  won  its  fair  subject 
on  his  arrival  at  man’s  estate,  entered  into  two  partnerships  at 
once.  So  now,  in  Cook’s  Court,  Cursitor  Street,  Mr.  Snagsby 
and  the  niece  are  one  ;  and  the  niece  still  cherishes  her  figure 
— which,  however  tastes  may  differ,  is  unquestionably  so  far 
precious,  that  there  is  mighty  little  of  it. 


H 


E  was  a  fat  old  gentleman  with  a  false  complexion,  false 
teeth,  false  whiskers,  and  a  wig.  He  had  a  fur  collar, 
and  he  had  a  padded  breast  to  his  coat,  which  only  wanted  a 


1 68 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS, 


star  or  a  broad  blue  ribbon  to  be  complete.  He  was  pinched 
in,  and  swelled  out,  and  got  up,  and  strapped  down,  as  much 
as  he  could  possibly  bear.  He  had  such  a  neckcloth  on  (puff¬ 
ing  his  very  eyes  out  of  their  natural  shape),  and  his  chin,  and 
even  his  ears  so  sunk  into  it,  that  it  seemed  as  though  he  must 
inevitably  double  up,  if  it  were  cast  loose.  He  had,  under  his 
arm,  a  hat  of  great  size  and  weight,  shelving  downward  from 
the  crown  to  the  brim  ;  and  in  his  hand  a  pair  of  white  gloves, 
with  which  he  flapped  it,  as  he  stood  poised  on  one  leg,  in  a 
high-shouldered,  round-elbowed  state  of  elegance  not  to  be 
surpassed.  He  had  a  cane,  he  had  an  eye-glass,  he  had  a  snuff¬ 
box,  he  had  rings,  he  had  wristbands,  he  had  everything  but 
any  touch  of  nature ;  he  was  not  like  youth,  he  was  not  like 
age,  he  was  not  like  anything  in  the  world  but  a  model  of  De¬ 
portment. 

HERE  has  been  only  one  child  in  the  Small  weed  family 


X  for  several  generations.  Little  old  men  and  women 
there  have  been,  but  no  child,  until  Mr.  Small  weed’s  grand¬ 
mother,  now  living,  became  weak  in  her  intellect,  and  fell  (for 
the  first  time)  into  a  childish  state.  With  such  infantine 
graces  as  a  total  want  of  observation,  memory,  understanding, 
and  interest,  and  an  eternal  disposition  to  fall  asleep  over 
the  fire  and  into  it,  Mr.  Smallweed’s  grandmother  has  undoubt¬ 
edly  brightened  the  family. 

Mr.  Smallweed’s  grandfather  is  likewise  of  the  party.  He  is 
in  a  helpless  condition  as  to  his  lower,  and  nearly  so  as  to 
his  upper  limbs ;  but  his  mind  is  unimpaired.  It  holds,  as 
well  as  it  ever  held,  the  first  four  rules  of  arithmetic,  and  a 
certain  small  collection  of  the  hardest  facts.  In  respect  of 
ideality,  reverence,  wonder,  and  other  such  phrenological  attri¬ 
butes,  it  is  no  worse  off  than  it  used  to  be.  Everything  that 
Mr.  Smallweed’s  grandfather  ever  put  away  in  his  mind,  was  a 
grub  at  first,  and  is  a  grub  at  last.  In  all  his  life  he  has  never 
bred  a  single  butterfly. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


169 


The  father  of  this  pleasant  grandfather,  of  the  neighborhood 
of  Mount  Pleasant,  was  a  horny-skinned,  two-legged,  money¬ 
getting  species  of  spider,  who  spun  webs  to  catch  unwary  flies, 
and  retired  into  holes  until  they  were  entrapped.  The  name 
of  this  old  pagan’s  god  was  Compound  Interest.  He  lived 
for  it,  married  it,  died  of  it.  Meeting  with  a  heavy  loss  in  an 
honest  little  enterprise  in  which  all  the  loss  was  intended  to 
have  been  on  the  other  side,  he  broke  something — something 
necessary  to  his  existence  ;  therefore  it  couldn’t  have  been  his 
heart — and  made  an  end  of  his  career.  As  his  character  was 
not  good,  and  he,  had  been  bred  at  a  Charity  School,  in  a 
complete  course,  according  to  question  and  answer,  of  those 
ancient  people,  the  Amorites  and  Hittites,  he  was  frequently 
quoted  as  an  example  of  the  failure  of  education. 

^TT  TELL,  sir,”  returns  Mr.  Snagsby,  “you  see  my  little 
V  V  woman  is — not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it — 
inquisitive.  She’s  inquisitive.  Poor  little  thing,  she’s  liable  to 
spasms,  and  it’s  good  for  her  to  have  her  mind  employed.  In 
consequence  of  which  she  employs  it — I  should  say  upon  every 
individual  thing  she  can  lay  hold  of,  whether  it  concerns  her  or 
not — especially  not.  My  little  woman  has  a  very  active  mind, 
sir.” 

JO  is  brought  in.  He  is  not  one  of  Mrs.  Pardiggle’s  Tocka- 
hoopo  Indians  ;  he  is  not  one  of  Mrs.  Jellyby’s  lambs, 
being  wholly  unconnected  with  Borrioboola-Gha;  he  is  not 
softened  by  distance  and  unfamiliarity ;  he  is  not  a  genuine 
foreign-grown  savage  !  he  is  the  ordinary  home-made  article. 
Dirty,  ugly,  disagreeable  to  all  the  senses,  in  body  a  common 
creature  of  the  common  streets,  only  in  soul  a  heathen. 
Homely  filth  begrimes  him,  homely  parasites  devour  him, 
homely  sores  are  in  him,  homely  rags  are  on  him  :  native  ig¬ 
norance,  the  growth  of  English  soil  and  climate,  sinks  his  im- 
8 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


I  70 


mortal  nature  lower  than  the  beasts  that  perish.  Stand  forth, 
Jo,  in  uncompromising  colors  !  From  the  sole  of  thy  foot  to 
the  crown  of  thy  head,  there  is  nothing  interesting  about  thee. 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


HE  colonel’s  son  was  Mrs.  Merdle’s  only  child.  He 


A  was  of  a  chuckle-headed,  high-shouldered  make,  with  the 
general  appearance  of  being,  not  so  much  a  young  man  as  a 
swelled  boy.  He  had  given  so  few  signs  of  reason,  that  a  by¬ 
word  went  among  his  companions  that  his  brain  had  been 
frozen  up  in  a  mighty  frost  which  prevailed  at  St.  John’s,  New 
Brunswick,  at  the  period  of  his  birth  there,  and  had  never 
thawed  from  that  hour.  Another  byword  represented  him  as 
having  in  his  infancy,  through  the  negligence  of  a  nurse,  fallen 
out  of  a  high  window  on  his  head,  which  had  been  heard  by 
responsible  witnesses  to  crack.  It  is  probable  that  both  these 
representations  were  of  ex  post  facto  origin,  the  young  gentle¬ 
man  (whose  expressive  name  was  Sparkler)  being  monomania- 
cal  in  offering  marriage  to  all  manner  of  undesirable  young 
ladies,  and  in  remarking  of  every  successive  young  lady  to  whom 
he  tendered  a  matrimonial  proposal  that  she  was  “a  doosed 
fine  gal — well  educated  too — with  no  biggodd  nonsense  about 


her.” 


WHAT  Mr.  Chivery  thought  of  these  things,  or  how  much 
or  how  little  he  knew  about  them,  was  never  gathered 


from  himself.  It  has  been  already  remarked  that  he  was  a  man 


of  few  words ;  and  it  may  be  here  observed,  that  he  had  im¬ 
bibed  a  professional  habit  of  locking  everything  up.  He 
locked  himself  up  as  carefully  as  he  locked  up  the  Marshalsea 
debtors.  Even  his  custom  of  bolting  his  meals  may  have  been 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


I7I 

a  part  of  a  uniform  whole  ;  but  there  is  no  question,  that,  as  to 
all  other  purposes,  he  kept  his  mouth  as  he  kept  the  Marshal- 
sea  door.  He  never  opened  it  without  occasion.  When  it 
was  necessary  to  let  anything  out,  he  opened  it  a  little  way, 
held  it  open  just  as  long  as  sufficed  for  the  purpose,  and 
locked  it  again.  Even  as  he  would  be  sparing  of  his  trouble  at 
the  Marshalsea  door,  and  would  keep  a  visitor  who  wanted  to 
go  out,  waiting  for  a  few  moments  if  he  saw  another  visitor 
coming  down  the  yard,  so  that  one  turn  of  the  key  should  suf¬ 
fice  for  both,  similarly  he  would  often  reserve  a  remark  if  he 
perceived  another  on  its  way  to  his  lips,  and  would  deliver  him¬ 
self  of  the  two  together.  As  to  any  key  to  his  inner  knowledge 
being  to  be  found  in  his  face,  the  Marshalsea  key  was  as  legi¬ 
ble  an  index  to  the  individual  characters  and  histories  upon 
which  it  was  turned. 

ANYBODY  may  pass,  any  day,  in  the  thronged  thorough¬ 
fares  of  the  metropolis,  some  meagre,  wrinkled,  yellow 
old  man  (who  might  be  supposed  to  have  dropped  from  the 
stars,  if  there  were  any  star  in  the  heavens  dull  enough  to  be 
suspected  of  casting  off  so  feeble  a  spark),  creeping  along  with 
a  scared  air,  as  though  bewildered  and  a  little  frightened  by 
the  noise  and  bustle.  This  old  man  is  always  a  little  old  man. 
If  he  were  ever  a  big  old  man,  he  has  shrunk  into  a  little  old 
man ;  if  he  were  always  a  little  old  man,  he  has  dwindled  into 
a  less  old  man.  His  coat  is  of  a  color,  and  cut,  that  never  was 
the  mode  anywhere,  at  any  period.  Clearly,  it  was  not  made 
for  him,  or  for  any  individual  mortal.  Some  wholesale  con¬ 
tractor  measured  Fate  for  five  thousand  coats  of  such  quality, 
and  Fate  has  lent  this  old  coat  to  this  old  man,  as  one  of  a  long 
unfinished  line  of  many  old  men.  It  has  always  large,  dull, 
metal  buttons,  similar  to  no  other  buttons.  This  old  man 
wears  a  hat,  a  thumbed  and  napless  and  yet  an  obdurate  hat, 
which  has  never  adapted  itself  to  the  shape  of  his  poor  head. 
His  coarse  shirt  and  his  coarse  neckcloth  have  no  more  indi- 


1 72 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


viduality  than  his  coat  and  hat ;  they  have  the  same  character 
of  not  being  his-*-of  not  being  anybody’s.  Yet  this  old  man 
wears  these  clothes  with  a  certain  unaccustomed  air  of  being 
dressed  and  elaborated  for  the  public  ways ;  as  though  he 
passed  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  a  nightcap  and  gown. 
And  so,  like  the  country  mouse  in  the  second  year  of  a  famine, 
come  to  see  the  town  mouse,  and  timidly  threading  his  way  to 
the  town-mouse’s  lodging  through  a  city  of  cats,  this  old  man 
passes  in  the  streets. 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 

IT  is  needless  to  multiply  instances  of  the  high  and  lofty 
station,  and  the  vast  importance  of  the  Chuzzlewits,  at 
different  periods.  If  it  came  within  the  scope  of  reasonable 
probability  that  further  proofs  were  required,  they  might  be 
heaped  upon  each  other  until  they  formed  an  Alps  of  testi¬ 
mony,  beneath  which  the  boldest  scepticism  should  be  crushed 
and  beaten  flat.  As  a  goodly  tumulus  is  already  collected,  and 
decently  battened  up  above  the  Family  grave,  the  present 
chapter  is  content  to  leave  it  as  it  is  ;  merely  adding,  by  way 
of  a  final  spadeful,  that  many  Chuzzlewits,  both  male  and 
female,  are  proved  to  demonstration,  on  the  faith  of  letters 
written  by  their  own  mothers,  to  have  had  chiselled  noses,  un¬ 
deniable  chins,  forms  that  might  have  served  the  sculptor  for  a 
model,  exquisitely-turned  limbs,  and  polished  foreheads  of  so 
transparent  a  texture  that  the  blue  veins  might  be  seen  branch¬ 
ing  off  in  various  directions,  like  so  many  roads  on  an  ethereal 
map. 

HE  was  a  most  exemplary  man ;  fuller  of  virtuous  precept 
than  a  copy-book.  Some  people  likened  him  to  a  di¬ 
rection-post,  which  is  always  telling  the  way  to  a  place^  and 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


1 73 


never  goes  there ;  but  these  were  his  enemies ;  the  shadows 
cast  by  his  brightness  ;  that  was  all.  His  very  throat  was  moral. 
You  saw  a  good  deal  of  it.  You  looked  over  a  very  low  fence 
of  white  cravat  (whereof  no  man  had  ever  beheld  the  tie,  for 
he  fastened  it  behind),  and  there  it  lay,  a  valley  between  two 
jutting  heights  of  collar,  serene  and  whiskerless  before  you.  It 
seemed  to  say,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  “  There  is  no  de¬ 
ception,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  all  is  peace,  a  holy  calm  per¬ 
vades  me.”  So  did  his  hair,  just  grizzled  with  an  iron-gray, 
which  was  all  brushed  off  his  forehead,  and  stood  bolt  upright, 
or  slightly  drooped  in  kindred  action  with  his  heavy  eyelids. 
So  did  his  person,  which  was  sleek,  though  free  from  corpulency. 
So  did  his  manner,  which  was  soft  and  oily.  In  a  word,  even 
his  plain  black  suit,  and  state  of  widower,  and  dangling 
double  eye-glass,  all  tended  to  the  same  purpose,  and  cried 
aloud,  “  Behold  the  moral  Pecksniff!  ” 

The  brazen  plate  upon  the  door  (which  being  Mr.  Peck¬ 
sniff’s,  could  not  lie)  bore  this  inscription,  “  Pecksniff,  Archi¬ 
tect,”  to  which  Mr.  Pecksniff,  on  his  cards  of  business,  added, 
“  and  Land  Surveyor.”  In  one  sense,  and  only  one,  he  may 
be  said  to  have  been  a  Land  Surveyor  on  a  pretty  large  scale, 
as  an  extensive  prospect  lay  stretched  out  before  the  windows 
of  his  house.  Of  his  architectural  doings,  nothing  was  clearly 
known,  except  that  he  had  never  designed  or  built  anything ; 
but  it  was  generally  understood  that  his  knowledge  of  the  sci¬ 
ence  was  almost  awful  in  its  profundity. 

HE  mistress  of  the  Blue  Dragon  was  in  outward  appear- 


-1-  ance  just  what  a  landlady  should  be  :  broad,  buxom, 
comfortable,  and  good-looking,  with  a  face  of  clear  red  and 
white,  which,  by  its  jovial  aspect,  at  once  bore  testimony  to  her 
hearty  participation  in  the  good  things  of  the  larder  and  cellar, 
and  to  their  thriving  and  healthful  influences.  She  was  a 
widow,  but  years  ago  had  passed  through  her  state  of  weeds, 


*74 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


and  burst  into  flower  again ;  and  in  full  bloom  she  had  con¬ 
tinued  ever  since  ;  and  in  full  bloom  she  was  now ;  with  roses 
on  her  ample  skirts,  and  roses  on  her  bodice,  roses  in  her  cap, 
roses  in  her  cheeks, — ay,  and  roses,  worth  the  gathering  too, 
on  her  lips,  for  that  matter.  She  had  still  a  bright  black 
eye,  and  jet  black  hair  ;  was  comely,  dimpled,  plump,  and  tight 
as  a  gooseberry  ;  and  though  she  was  not  exactly  what  the  world 
calls  young,  you  may  make  an  affidavit,  on  trust,  before  any 
mayor  or  magistrate  in  Christendom,  that  there  are  a  great 
many  young  ladies  in  the  world  (blessings  on  them  one  and 
all !)  whom  you  wouldn’t  like  half  as  well,  or  admire  half  as 
much,  as  the  beaming  hostess  of  the  Blue  Dragon. 


IRST  there  was  Mr.  Spottletoe,  who  was  so  bald,  and  had 


JL  such  big  whiskers,  that  he  seemed  to  have  stopped  his 
hair,  by  the  sudden  application  of  some  powerful  remedy,  in 
the  very  act  of  falling  off  his  head,  and  to  have  fastened  it  irrev¬ 
ocably  on  his  face.  Then  there  was  Mrs.  Spottletoe,  who,  be¬ 
ing  too  slim  for  her  years,  and  of  a  poetical  constitution,  was 
accustomed  to  inform  her  more  intimate  friends  that  the  said 
whiskers  were  “the  lodestar  of  her  existence;”  and  who  could 
now,  by  reason  of  her  strong  affection  for  her  uncle,  Chuzzlewit, 
and  the  shock  it  gave  her  to  be  suspected  of  testamentary  de¬ 
signs  upon  him,  do  nothing  but  cry — except  moan.  Then  there 
were  Anthony  Chuzzlewit,  and  his  son,  Jonas  :  the  face  of  the 
old  man  so  sharpened  by  the  wariness  and  cunning  of  his  life, 
that  it  seemed  to  cut  him  a  passage  through' the  crowded  room, 
as  he  edged  away  behind  the  remotest  chairs ;  while  the  son 
had  so  well  profited  by  the  precept  and  example  of  the  father, 
that  he  looked  a  year  or  two  the  elder  of  the  twain,  as  they 
stood,  winking  their  red  eyes,  side  by  side,  and  whispering  to 
each  other  softly.  Then  there  was  the  widow  of  a  "deceased 
brother  of  Mr.  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  who,  being  almost  supernat- 
urally  disagreeable,  and  having  a  dreary  face  and  a  bony  figure 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


175 


and  a  masculine  voice,  was,  in  right  of  these  qualities,  what  is 
commonly  called  a  strong-minded  woman ;  and  who,  if  she 
could,  would  have  established  her  claim  to  the  title,  and  have 
shown  herself,  mentally  speaking,  a  perfect  Samson,  by  shutting 
up  her  brother-in-law  in  a  private  mad-house  until  he  proved 
his  complete  sanity  by  loving  her  very  much.  Beside  her  sat 
her  spinster  daughters,  three  in  number,  and  of  gentlemanly  de¬ 
portment,  who  had  so  mortified  themselves  with  tight  stays,  that 
their  tempers  were  reduced  to  something  less  than  their  waists, 
and  sharp  lacing  was  expressed  in  their  very  noses.  Then  there 
was  a  young  gentleman,  grand-nephew  of  Mr.  Martin  Chuzzle- 
wit,  very  dark  and  very  hairy,  and  apparently  born  for  no  par¬ 
ticular  purpose  but  to  save  looking-glasses  the  trouble  of  re¬ 
flecting  more  than  just  the  first  idea  and  sketchy  notion  of  a 
face,  which  had  never  been  carried  out.  Then  there  was  a  sol¬ 
itary  female  cousin,  who  was  remarkable  for  nothing  but  being 
very  deaf,  and  living  by  herself,  and  always  having  the  tooth¬ 
ache.  Then  there  was  George  Chuzzlewit,  a  gay  bachelor 
cousin,  who  claimed  to  be  young,  but  had  been  younger,  and 
was  inclined  to  corpulency,  and  rather  overfed  himself :  to  that 
extent,  indeed,  that  his  eyes  were  strained  in  their  sockets,  as 
if  with  constant  surprise  ;  and  he  had  such  an  obvious  disposition 
to  pimples,  that  the  bright  spots  on  his  cravat,  the  rich  pattern 
on  his  waistcoat,  and  even  his  glittering  trinkets,  seemed  to 
have  broken  out  upon  him,  and  not  to  have  come  into  existence 
comfortably.  Last  of  all,  there  were  present  Mr.  Chevy  Slime 
and  his  friend,  Tigg.  And  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that,  although 
each  person  present  disliked  the  other,  mainly  because  he  or 
she  did  belong  to  the  family,  they  one  and  all  concurred  in  hat¬ 
ing  Mr.  Tigg  because  he  didn’t. 

I  F  ever  Mr.  Pecksniff  wore  an  apostolic  look,  he  wore  it  on 
this  memorable  day.  If  ever  his  unruffled  smile  proclaimed 
the  words,  “  I  am  a  messenger  of  peace  !  ”  that  was  its  mission 


176 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


now.  If  ever  man  combined  within  himself  all  the  mild  qualities 
of  the  lamb  with  a  considerable  touch  of  the  dove,  and  not  a  dash 
of  the  crocodile,  or  the  least  possible  suggestion  of  the  very 
mildest  seasoning  of  the  serpent,  that  man  was  he.  And  oh, 
the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs !  Oh,  the  serene  expression  on  the 
face  of  Charity,  which  seemed  to  say,  “  I  know  that  all  my  fam¬ 
ily  have  injured  me  beyond  the  possibility  of  reparation,  but  I 
forgive  them,  for  it  is  my  duty  so  to  do !  ”  And,  oh  !  the  gay 
simplicity  of  Mercy,  so  charming,  innocent,  and  infant-like, 
that  if  she  had  gone  out  walking  by  herself,  and  it  had  bee-n  a 
little  earlier  in  the  season,  the  robin-redbreasts  might  have  cov¬ 
ered  her  with  leaves  against  her  will,  believing  her  to  be  one  of 
the  sweet  children  in  the  wood,  come  out  of  it,  and  issuing  forth 
once  more  to  look  for  blackberries,  in  the  young  freshness  of 
her  heart !  What  words  can  paint  the  Pecksniffs  in  that  trying 
hour  ?  Oh,  none ;  for  words  have  naughty  company  among 
them,  and  the  Pecksniffs  were  all  goodness. 


IT  was  morning ;  and  the  beautiful  Aurora,  of  whom  so  much 
hath  been  written,  said,  and  sung,  did,  with  her  rosy  fingers, 
nip  and  tweak  Miss  Pecksniff’s  nose.  It  was  the  frolicsome  cus¬ 
tom  of  the  goddess,  in  her  intercourse  with  the  fair  Cherry,  so  to 
do  ;  or  in  more  prosaic  phrase,  the  tip  of  that  feature  in  the  sweet 
girl’s  countenance  was  always  very  red  at  breakfast-time.  For 
the  most  part,  indeed,  it  wore,  at  that  season  of  the  day,  a 
scraped  and  frosty  look,  as  if  it  had  been  rasped ;  while  a  simi- 
ilar  phenomenon  developed  itself  in  her  humor,  which  was  then 
observed  to  be  of  a  sharp  and  acid  quality,  as  though  an  extra 
lemon  (figuratively  speaking)  had  been  squeezed  into  the  nec¬ 
tar  of  her  disposition,  and  had  rather  damaged  its  flavor. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


177 


FROM  THE  MYSTERY  OF  EDWIN  DROOD. 

MR.  GREWGIOUS  had  been  well  selected  for  his  trust, 
as  a  man  of  incorruptible  integrity,  but  certainly  for  no 
other  appropriate  quality  discernible  on  the  surface.  He  was 
an  arid,  sandy  man,  who,  if  he  had  been  put  into  a  grinding- 
mill,  looked  as  if  he  would  have  ground  immediately  into  high- 
dried  snuff.  He  had  a  scanty  flat  crop  of  hair,  in  color  and 
consistency  like  some  very  mangy  yellow  fur  tippet ;  it  was  so 

unlike  hair,  that  it  must  have  been  a  wig,  but  for  the  stupendous 

* 

improbability  of  anybody’s  voluntarily  sporting  such  a  head. 
The  little  play  of  feature  that  his  face  presented  was  cut  deep 
into  it,  in  a  few  hard  curves  that  made  it  more  like  work  ;  and 
he  had  certain  notches  in  his  forehead,  which  looked  as  though 
Nature  had  been  about  to  touch  them  into  sensibility  or  refine¬ 
ment,  when  she  had  impatiently  thrown  away  the  chisel,  and 
said,  “  I  really  cannot  be  worried  to  finish  off  this  man  ;  let 
him  go  as  he  is.” 

With  too  great  length  of  throat  at  his  upper  end,  and  too 
much  ankle-bone  and  heel  at  his  lower  ;  with  an  awkward  and 
hesitating  manner  ;  with  a  shambling  walk,  and  with  what  is 
called  a  near  sight — which  perhaps  prevented  his  observing  how 
much  white-cotton  stocking  he  displayed  to  the  public  eye,  in 
coiatrast  with  his  black  suit— Mr.  Grewgious  still  had  some 
strange  capacity  in  him  of  making,  on  the  whole,  an  agreeable 
impression. 

46  A  ND  now,  Mr.  Jasper,”  resumes  the  auctioneer,  pro- 
l  \  ducing  his  scrap  of  manuscript,  “Mrs.  Sapsea’s  mon¬ 
ument  having  had  full  time  to  settle  and  dry,  let  me  take  your 
opinion,  as  a  man  of  taste,  on  the  inscription  I  have  (as  I  be¬ 
fore  remarked,  not  without  some  little  fever  of  the  brow),  drawn 
out  for  it.  Take  it  in  your  own  hand.  The  setting-out  of  the 
lines  requires  to  be  followed  with  the  eye,  as  well  as  the  con¬ 
tents  with  the  mind.” 

8* 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


178 

Mr.  Jasper  complying,  sees  and  reads  as  follows  : 

ETHELINDA, 

Reverential  Wife  of 
MR.-  THOMAS  SAPSEA, 

AUCTIONEER,  VALUER,  ESTATE  AGENT,  ETC., 
OF  THIS  CITY, 

Whose  Knowledge  of  the  World, 
Though  somewhat  extensive, 

Never  brought  him  acquainted  with 
A  SPIRIT 
More  capable  of 
LOOKING  UP  TO  HIM. 

STRANGER  PAUSE 
And  ask  thyself  the  Question, 

CANST  THOU  DO  LIKEWISE? 

If  not, 

WITH  A  BLUSH  RETIRE. 


HE  was  getting  very  cold  indeed,  when  he  came  upon  a 
fragment  of  burial-ground,  in  which  an  unhappy  sheep 
was  grazing.  Unhappy,  because  a  hideous  small  boy  was 
stoning  it  through  the  railings,  and  had  already  lamed  it  in  one 
leg,  and  was  much  excited  by  the  benevolent  sportsman-like 
purpose  of  breaking  its  other  three  legs,  and  bringing  it  down. 

“’It  ’im  agin  !  ”  cried  the  boy,  as  the  poor  creature  leaped, 
“  and  made  a  dint  in  his  wool.” 

“  Let  him  be  !  ”  said  Mr.  Datchery.  “  Don’t  you  see  you 
have  lamed  him  ?  ” 

“Yer  lie,”  returned  the  sportsman.  “’E  went  and  lamed 
’isself.  I  see  ’im  do  it,  and  I  giv’  ’im  a  shy  as  a  Widdy-warn- 
ing  to  ’im  not  to  go  a-bruisin’  ’is  master’s  mutton  any  more.” 

“  Come  here.” 

“  I  won’t ;  I’ll  come  when  yer  can  ketch  me.” 

“Stay  there,  then,  and  show  me  which  is  Mr.  Tope’s.” 

“’Ow  can  I  stay  here  and  show  you  which  is  Topeseses, 
when  Topeseses  is  t’other  side  the  Kinfreederal,  and  over  the 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


179 


crossings,  and  round  ever  so  many  corners  ?  Stoo-pid ! 
Ya-a-ah  !  ” 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

HE  wore  a  sprinkling  of  powder  upon  his  head,  as  if  to 
make  himself  look  benevolent ;  but  if  that  were  his 
purpose,  he  would  perhaps  have  done  better  to  powder  his 
countenance  also,  for  there  was  something  in  its  very  wrinkles, 
and  in  his  cold,  restless  eye,  which  seemed  to  tell  of  cunning 
that  would  announce  itself  in  spite  of  him. 


IN  obedience  to  this  summons  the  clerk  got  off  the  high 
stool  (to  which  he  had  communicated  a  high  polish  by 
countless  gettings  off  and  on),  and  presented  himself  in  Mr. 
Nickleby’s  room.  He  was  a  tall  man  of  middle  age,  with  two 
goggle  eyes  whereof  one  was  a  fixture,  a  rubicund  nose,  a 
cadaverous  face,  and  a  suit  of  clothes  (if  the  term  be  allowable 
when  they  suited  him  not  at  all)  much  the  worse  for  wear,  very 
much  too  small,  and  placed  upon  such  a  short  allowance  of 
buttons  that  it  was#  marvellous  how  he  contrived  to  keep  them 
on. 


MR.  SQUEERS’S  appearance  was  not  prepossessing. 

He  had  but  one  eye,  and  the  popular  prejudice  runs 
in  favor  of  two.  The  eye  he  had  was  unquestionably  useful, 
but  decidedly  not  ornamental  :  being  of  a  greenish  gray,  and’ 
in  shape  resembling  the  fan-light  of  a  street-door.  The  blank 
side  of  his  face  was  much  wrinkled  and  puckered  up,  which 
gave  him  a  very  sinister  appearance,  especially  when  he  smiled, 
at  which  times  his  expression  bordered  closely  on  the  villanous. 
His  hair  was  very  flat  and  shiny,  save  at  the  ends,  where  it  was 


i8o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


brushed  stiffly  up  from  a  low,  protruding  forehead,  which  as¬ 
sorted  well  with  his  harsh  voice  and  coarse  manner.  He  was 
about. two  or  three  and  fifty,  and  a  trifle  below  the  middle  size  ; 
he  wore  a  white  neckerchief  with  long  ends,  and  a  suit  of 
scholastic  black ;  but  his  coat-sleeves  being  a  great  deal  too 
long,  and  his  trousers  a  great  deal  too  short,  he  appeared  ill  at 
ease  in  his  clothes,  and  as  if  he  were  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
astonishment  at  finding  himself  so  respectable. 

THEY  had  not  been  in  this  apartment  a  couple  of  minutes, 
when  a  female  bounced  into  the  room,  and,  seizing  Mr. 
Squeers  by  the  throat,  gave  him  two  loud  kisses ;  one  close 
after  the  other,  like  a  postman’s  knock.  The  lady,  who  was 
of  a  large,  raw-boned  figure,  was  about  half  a  head  taller  than 
Mr.  Squeers,  and  was  dressed  in  a  dimity  night-jacket ;  with 
her  hair  in  papers  ;  she  had  also  a  dirty  nightcap  on,  relieved 
by  a  yellow  cotton  handkerchief  which  tied  it  under  the  chin. 

“  How  is  my  Squeery  ?  ”  asked  this  lady  in  a  playful  man¬ 
ner,  and  a  very  hoarse  voice. 

“  Quite  well,  my  love,”  replied  Squeers.  “  How’s  the 
cows  ?  ” 

“  All  right,  every  one  of ’em,”  answered  the  lady. 

“And  the  pigs  ?  ”  said  Squeers. 

“  As  well  as  they  were  when  you  went  away.” 

“Come;  that’s  a  blessing,”  said  Squeers,  pulling  off  his 
great-coat. 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

^  T  T  ERE’S  my  Am!”  screamed  Peggotty,  “growed  out 
XX  of  knowledge  !  ” 

He  was  waiting  for  us,  in  fact,  at  the  public-house ;  and  asked 
me  how  I  found  myself,  like  an  old  acquaintance.  I  did  not 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


181 


feel,  at  first,  that  I  knew  him  as  well  as  he  knew  me,  because 
he  had  never'  come  to  our  house  since  the  night  I  was  born, 
and  naturally  he  had  the  advantage  of  me.  But  our  intimacy 
was  much  advanced  by  his  taking  me  on  his  back  to  carry  me 
home.  He  was  now  a  huge,  strong  fellow  of  six  feet  high, 
broad  in  proportion,  and  round-shouldered ;  but  with  a  simper¬ 
ing  boy’s  face  and  curly  light  hair  that  gave  him  quite  a  sheep¬ 
ish  look.  He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  jacket,  and  a  pair  of 
such  very  stiff  trousers  that  they  would  have  stood  quite  as 
well  alone,  without  any  legs  in  them.  And  you  couldn’t  so 
properly  have  said  he  wTore  a  hat,  as  that  he  was  covered  in 
a-top,  like  an  old  building,  with  something  pitchy. 

IT  AVING  done  the  honors  of  his  hous^  in  this  hospitable 
I.  manner,  Mr.  Peggotty  went  out  to  wash  himself  in  a 
kettleful  of  hot  water,  remarking  that  “  cold  would  never  get 
his  muck  off.”  He  soon  returned,  greatly  improved  in  ap¬ 
pearance ;  but  so  rubicund,  that  I  couldn’t  help  thinking  his 
face  had  this  in  common  with  the  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish 
— that  it  went  into  the  hot  water  very  black  and  came  out 
very  red. 

RRIVED  at  his  house  in  Windsor  Terrace  (which  I 


lx.  noticed  was  shabby  like  himself,  but  also,  like  himself, 
made  all  the  show  it  could),  he  presented  me  to  Mrs.  Micawber, 
a  thin  and  faded  lady,  not  at  all  young,  who  was  sitting  in  the 
parlor  (the  first  floor  was  altogether  unfurnished,  and  the  blinds 
were  kept  down  to  delude  the  neighbors),  with  a  baby  at  her 
breast.  This  baby  was  one  of  twins  ;  and  I  may  remark  here 
that  I  hardly  ever,  in  all  my  experience  of  the  family,  saw 
both  the  twins  detached  from  Mrs.  Micawber  at  the  same  time. 
One  of  them  was  always  taking  refreshment. 

MY  shoes  were  by  this  time  in  a  woful  condition.  The 
soles  had  shed  themselves  bit  by  bit,  and  the  upper 
leathers  had  broken  and  burst  until  the  very  shape  and  form 


182  , 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


of  shoes  had  departed  from  them.  My  hat  (which  had  served 
me  for  a  nightcap,  too)  was  so  crushed  and  bent,  that  no  old, 
battered,  handleless  saucepan  on  a  dunghill  need  have  been 
ashamed  to  vie  with  it.  My  shirt  and  trousers,  stained  with 
heat,  dew,  grass,  and  the  Kentish  soil  on  which  I  had  slept — 
and  torn  besides — might  have  frightened  the  birds  from  my 
aunt’s  garden,  as  I  stood  at  the  gate.  My  hair  had  known  no 
comb  or  brush  since  I  left  London.  My  face,  neck,  and 
hands,  from  unaccustomed  exposure  to  the  air  and  sun,  were 
burnt  to  a  berry-brown.  From  head  to  foot  I  was  powdered 
almost  as  white  with  chalk  and  dust,  as  if  I  had  come  out  of  a 
limekiln.  In  this  plight,  and  with  a  strong  consciousness  of  it, 
I  waited  to  introduce  myself  to,  and  make  my  first  impression 
on,  my  formidable  aunt. 


OCTOR  STRONG  looked  almost  as  rusty,  to  my  think- 


JL/  ing,  as  the  tall  iron  rails  and  gates  outside  the  house  ;  and 
almost  as  stiff  and  heavy  as  the  great  stone  urns  that  flanked 
them,  and  were  set  up,  on  the  top  of  the  red-brick  wall,  at  regu¬ 
lar  distances  all  round  the  court,  like  sublimated  skittles,  for 
Time  to  play  at.  He  was  in  his  library  (I  mean  Doctor  Strong 
was),  with  his  clothes  not  particularly  well  brushed,  and  his  hair 
not  particularly  well  combed ;  his  knee-smalls  unbraced ;  his 
long  black  gaiters  unbuttoned  ;  and  his  shoes  yawning  like  two 
caverns  on  the  hearth-rug.  Turning  upon  me  a  lustreless  eye, 
that  reminded  me  of  a  long-forgotten  blind  old  horse  who  once 
used  to  crop  the  grass,  and  tumble  over  the  graves,  in  Blunder- 
stone  churchyard,  he  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me  ;  and  then  he 
gave  me  his  hand  ;  which  I  didn’t  know  what  to  do  with,  as  it 
did  nothing  for  itself. 

u  T  AM  well  aware  that  I  am  the  umblest  person  going,” 
X  said  Uriah  Heep,  modestly;  “let  the  other  be  where 
he  may.  My  mother  is  likewise  a  very  umble  person.  We 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


183 


live  in  a  numble  abode,  Master  Copperfield,  but  have  much  to 
be  thankful  for.  My  father’s  former  calling  was  umble.  He 
was  a  sexton.” 

“  What  is  he  now  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  He  is  a  partaker  of  glory  at  present,  Master  Copperfield.” 


SOME  of  the  higher  scholars  boarded  in  the  Doctor’s  house, 
and  through  them  I  learned,  at  second-hand,  some  par¬ 
ticulars  of  the  Doctor’s  history.  As,  how  he  had  not  yet  been 
married  twelve  months  to  the  beautiful  young  lady  I  had  seen 
in  the  study,  whom  he  had  married  for  love ;  for  she  had  not,  a 
sixpence,  and  had  a  world  of  poor  relations  (so  our  fellows 
said)  ready  to  swarm  the  Doctor  out  of  house  and  home.  Also, 
how  the  Doctor’s  cogitating  manner  was  attributable  to  his 
being  always  engaged  in  looking  out  for  jGreek  roots ;  which, 
in  my  innocence  and  ignorance,  I  supposed  to  be  a  botanical 
furore  on  the  Doctor’s  part,  especially  as  he  always  looked  at  the 
ground  when  he  walked  about,  until  I  understood  that  they 
were  roots  of  words,  with  a  view  to  a  new  Dictionary  which  he 
had  in  contemplation.  Adams,  our  head-boy,  who  had  a  turn 
for  mathematics,  had  made  a  calculation,  I  was  informed,  of 
the  time  this  Dictionary  would  take  in  completing,  on  the  Doc¬ 
tor’s  plan,  and  at  the  Doctor’s  rate  of  going.  He  considered 
that  it  might  be  done  in  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  forty- 
nine  years,  counting  from  the  Doctor’s  last,  or  sixty-second 
birthday. 

I  LOOKED  at  the  doorway  and  saw  nothing.  I  was  still 
looking  at  thedoorway,  thinking  that  Miss  Mowcher  was  a 
long  while  making  her  appearance,  when,  to  my  infinite  as¬ 
tonishment,  there  came  waddling  round  a  sofa  which  stood  be¬ 
tween  me  and  it,  a  pursy  dwarf,  of  about  forty  or  forty-five, 
with  a  very  large  head  and  face,  a  pair  of  roguish  gray  eyes, 
and  such  extremely  little  arms,  that,  to  enable  herself  to  lay  a 


184 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


finger  archly  against  her  snub  nose  as  she  ogled  Steerforth,  she 
was  obliged  to  meet  the  finger  half  way,  and  lay  her  nose 
against  it.  Her  chin,  which  was  what  is  called  a  double-chin, 
was  so  fat  that  it  entirely  swallowed  up  the  strings  of  her  bon¬ 
net,  bow  and  all.  Throat  she  had  none  ;  waist  she  had  none  ; 
legs  she  had  none,  worth  mentioning ;  for  though  she  was  more 
than  full-sized  down  to  where  her  waist  would  have  been,  if  she 
had  had  any,  and  though  she  terminated,  as  human  beings 
generally  do,  in  a  pair  of  feet,  she  was  so  short  that  she  stood 
at  a  common-sized  chair  as  at  a  table,  resting  a  bag  she  car¬ 
ried  on  the  seat.  This  lady ;  dressed  in  an  off-hand,  easy 
style  ;  bringing  her  nose  and  her  forefinger  together,  with  the 
difficulty  I  have  described  ;  standing  with  her  head  necessarily 
on  one  side,  and,  with  one  of  her  sharp  eyes  shut  up,  making 
an  uncommonly  knowing  face  ;  after  ogling  Steerforth  for  a  few 
moments,  broke  into  a  torrent  of  words. 

HERE  was  a  servant  in  that  house,  a  man  who,  I  under- 


X  stood,  was  usually  with  Steerforth,  and  had  come  into  his 
service  at  the  University,  who  was  in  appearance  a  pattern  of 
respectability.  I  believe  there  never  existed  in  his  station  a 
more  respectable-looking  man.  He  was  taciturn,  soft-footed, 
very  quiet  in  his  manner,  deferential,  observant,  always  at  hand 
when  wanted,  and  never  near  when  not  wanted ;  but  his  great 
claim  to  consideration  was  his  respectability.  He  had  not  a 
pliant  face,  he  had  rather  a  stiff  neck,  rather  a  tight,  smooth 
head  with  short  hair  clinging  to  it  at  the  sides,  a  soft  way  of 
speaking,  with  a  peculiar  habit  of  whispering  the  letter  S  so 
distinctly,  that  he  seemed  to  use  it  oftener  than  any  other  man  ; 
but  every  peculiarity  that  he  had  he  made  respectable.  If  his 
nose  had  been  upside  down,  he  would  have  made  that  respect¬ 
able.  He  surrounded  himself  with  an  atmosphere  of  respecta¬ 
bility,  and  walked  secure  in  it.  It  would  have  been  next  to 
impossible  to  suspect  him  of  anything  wrong,  he  was  so  thor¬ 
oughly  respectable.  Nobody  could  have  thought  of  putting 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


185 


him  in  a  livery,  he  was  so  highly  respectable.  To  have  im¬ 
posed  any  derogatory  work  upon  him,  would  have  been  to  in¬ 
flict  a  wanton  insult  on  the  feelings  of  a  most  respectable  man. 
And  of  this,  I  noticed  the  women-servants  in  the  household 
were  so  intuitively  conscious,  that  they  always  did  such  work 
themselves,  and  generally  while  he  read  the  paper  by  the  pan¬ 
try  fire. 

Such  a  self-contained  man  I  never  saw.  But  in  that  quality, 
as  in  every  other  he  possessed,  he  only  seemed  to  be  the  more 
respectable.  Even  the  fact  that  no  one  knew  his  Christian 
name,  seemed  to  form  a  part  of  his  respectability.  Nothing 
could  be  objected  against  his  surname,  Littimer,  by  which  he 
was  known.  Peter  might  have  been  hanged,  or  Tom  trans¬ 
ported  ;  but  Littimer  was  perfectly  respectable. 


AGNES  had  no  time  to  say  more,  for  the  room-door 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Waterbrook,  who  was  a  large  lady — or 
who  wore  a  large  dress  :  I  don’t  exactly  know  which,  for  I 
don’t  know  which  was  dress  and  which  was  lady — came  sailing 
in.  I  had  a  dim  recollection  of  having  seen  her  at  the  theatre, 
as  if  I  had  seen  her  in  a  pale  magic  lantern  ;  but  she  appeared 
to  remember  me  perfectly,  and  still  to  suspect  me  of  being  in  a 
state  of  intoxication. 


IP'  I  went  to  sleep  for  a  few  moments,  the  image  of  Agnes 
with  her  tender  eyes,  and  of  her  father  looking  fondly  on 
her,  as  I  had  so  often  seen  him  look,  arose  before  me  with  ap¬ 
pealing  faces,  and  filled  me  with  vague  terrors.  When  I  awoke, 
the  recollection  that  Uriah  was  lying  in  the  next  room,  sat 
heavy  on  me  like  a  waking  nightmare ;  and  oppressed  me  with 
a  leaden  dread,  as  if  I  had  had  some  meaner  quality  of  devil 
for  a  lodger. 

The  poker  got  into  my  dozing  thoughts  besides,  and 


i86 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


wouldn’t  come  out.  I  thought,  between  sleeping  and  waking, 
that  it  was  still  red-hot,  and  I  had  snatched  it  out  of  the  fire, 
and  run  him  through  the  body.  I  was  so  haunted  at  last  by 
the  idea,  though  I  knew  there  was  nothing  in  it,  that  I  stole 
into  the  next  room  to  look  at  him.  There  I  saw  him,  lying  on 
his  back,  with  his  legs  extending  to  I  don’t  know  where,  gurg¬ 
lings  taking  place  in  his  throat,  stoppages  in  his  nose,  and  his 
mouth  open  like  a  post-office.  He  was  so  much  worse  in  real¬ 
ity  than  in  my  distempered  fancy,  that  afterwards  I  was  at¬ 
tracted  to  him  in  very  repulsion,  and  could  not  help  wandering 
in  and  out  every  half  hour  or  so,  and  taking  another  look  at 
him.  Still,  the  long  long  night  seemed  heavy  and  hopeless  as 
ever,  and  no  promise  of  day  was  in  the  murky  sky. 

When  I  saw  him  going  downstairs  early  in  the  morning  (for, 
thank  Heaven  !  he  would  not  stay  to  breakfast),  it  appeared  to 
me  as  if  the  night  was  going  away  in  his  person.  When  I  went 
out  to  the  Commons,  I  charged  Mrs.  Crupp  with  particular 
directions  to  leave  the  windows  open,  that  my  sitting-room 
might  be  aired,  and  purged  of  his  presence. 

I  DOUBT  whether  two  young  birds  could  have  known  less 
about  keeping  house,  than  I  and  my  pretty  Dora  did. 
We  had  a  servant,  of  course.  She  kept  house  for  us.  I  have 
still  a  latent  belief  that  she  must  have  been  Mrs.  Crupp’ s 
daughter  in  disguise,  we  had  such  an  awful  time  of  it  with 
Mary  Anne. 

Her  name  was  Paragon.  Her  nature  was  represented  to 
us,  when  we  engaged  her,  as  being  feebly  expressed  in  her 
name.  She  had  a  written  character  as  large  as  a  proclama¬ 
tion  ;  and,  according  to  this  document,  could  do  everything  of 
a  domestic  nature  that  ever  I  heard  of,  and  a  great  many  things 
that  I  never  did  hear  of.  She  was  a  woman  in  the  prime  of 
life  ;  of  a  severe  countenance  ;  and  subject  (particularly  in  the 
arms)  to  a  sort  of  perpetual  measles  or  fiery  rash.  She  had  a 
cousin  in  the  Life  Guards,  with  such  long  legs  that  he  looked 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


187 

like  the  afternoon  shadow  of  somebody  else.  His  shell-jacket 
was  as  much  too  little  for  him  as  he  was  too  big  for  the  prem¬ 
ises.  He  made  the  cottage  smaller  than  it  need  have  been, 
by  being  so  very  much  out  of  proportion  to  it.  Besides  which, 
the  walls  were  not  thick,  and  whenever  he  passed  the  evening 
at  our  house,  we  always  knew  of  it  by  hearing  one  continual 
growl  in  the  kitchen. 

Our  treasure  was  warranted  sober  and  honest.  I  am  there¬ 
fore  willing  to  believe  that  she  was  in  a  fit  when  we  found  her 
under  the  boiler,  and  that  the  deficient  teaspoons  were  attrib¬ 
utable  to  the  dustman. 

But  she  preyed  upon  our  minds  dreadfully.  We  felt  our  in¬ 
experience,  and  were  unable  to  help  ourselves.  We  should 
have  been  at  her  mercy,  if  she  had  had  any ;  but  she  was  a 
remorseless  woman,  and  had  none.  She  was  the  cause  of  our 
first  little  quarrel. 


r  |  AHE  next  domestic  trial  we  went  through,  was  the  Ordeal 
X  of  Servants.  Mary  Anne’s  cousin  deserted  into  our 
coal-hole,  and  was  brought  out,  to  our  great  amazement,  by  a 
piquet  of  his  companions  in  arms,  who  took  him  away  hand¬ 
cuffed  in  a  procession  that  covered  our  front-garden  with  igno- 
mony.  This  nerved  me  to  get  rid  of  Mary  Anne,  who  went 
so  mildly,  on  receipt  of  wages,  that  I  was  surprised,  until  1 
found  out  about  the  teaspoons,  and  also  about  the  little  sums 
she  had  borrowed  in  my  name  of  the  tradespeople  without  au¬ 
thority.  After  an  interval  of  Mrs.  Kidgerbury — the  oldest  in¬ 
habitant  of  Kentish  Town,  I  believe,  who  went  out  charing, 
but  was  too  feeble  to  execute  her  conceptions  of  that  art — we 
found  another  treasure,  who  was  one  of  the  most  amiable  of 
women,  but  who  generally  made  a  point  of  falling  either  up  or 
down  the  kitchen  stairs  with  the  tray,  and  almost  plunged  into 
the  parlor,  as  into  a  bath,  with  the  tea-things.  The  ravages 
committed  by  this  unfortunate  rendering  her  dismissal  neces¬ 
sary,  she  was  succeeded  (with  intervals  of  Mrs.  Kidgerbury)  by 


i88 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


a  long  line  of  Incapables ;  terminating  in  a  young  person  of 
genteel  appearance,  who  went  to  Greenwich  Fair  in  Dora’s 
bonnet. 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE 


HE  looker-on  was  a  round,  red-faced,  sturdy  yeoman, 


X  with  a  double  chin,  and  a  voice  husky  with  good  living, 
good  sleeping,  good-humor,  and  good  health.  He  was  past 
the  prime  of  life,  but  Father  Time  is  not  always  a  hard  parent, 
and,  though  he  tarries  for  none  of  his  children,  often  lays  his 
hand  lightly  upon  those  who  have  used  him  well ;  making  them 
old  men  and  women  inexorably  enough,  but  leaving  their 
hearts  and  spirits  young  and  in  full  vigor.  With  such  people 
the  gray  head  is  but  the  impression  of  the  old  fellow’s  hand  in 
giving  them  his  blessing,  and  every  wrinkle  but  a  notch  in  the 
quiet  calendar  of  a  well-spent  life. 

SIM,  as  he  was  called  in  the  locksmith’s  family,  or  Mr.  Si¬ 
mon  Tappertit,  as  he  called  himself,  and  required  all  men 
to  style  him  out  of  doors,  on  holidays,  and  Sundays  out — was 
an  old-fashioned,  thin-faced,  sleek-haired,  sharp-nosed,  small¬ 
eyed  little  fellow,  very  little  more  than  five  feet  high,  and  thor¬ 
oughly  convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  he  was  above  the  mid¬ 
dle  size  ;  rather  tall,  in  fact,  than  otherwise.  Of  his  figure, 
which  was  well  enough  formed,  though  somewhat  of  the  lean¬ 
est,  he  entertained  the  highest  admiration ;  and  with  his  legs, 
which,  in  knee-breeches,  were  perfect  curiosities  of  littleness,  he 
was  enraptured  to  a  degree  amounting  to  enthusiasm.  He  also 
had  some  majestic,  shadowy  ideas,  which  had  never  been  quite 
fathomed  by  his  intimate  friends,  concerning  the  power  of  his 
eye.  Indeed  he  had  been  known  to  go  so  far  as  to  boast  that 
he  could  utterly  quell  and  subdue  the  haughtiest  beauty  by  a 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


189 


simple  process,  which  he  termed  “  eying  her  over ;  ”  but  it 
must  be  added,  that  neither  of  this  faculty,  nor  of  the  power  he 
claimed  to  have,  through  the  same  gift,  of  vanquishing  and 
heaving  down  dumb  animals,  even  in  a  rabid  state,  had  he  ever 
furnished  evidence  which  could  be  deemed  quite  satisfactory 
and  conclusive. 

It  may  be  inferred  from  these  premises,  that  in  the  small 
body  of  Mr.  Tappertit  there  was  locked  up  an  ambitious  and 
aspiring  soul.  As  certain  liquors,  confined  in  casks  too 
cramped  in  their  dimensions,  will  ferment,  and  fret,  and  chafe 
in  their  imprisonment,  so  the  spiritual  essence  or  soul  of  Mr. 
Tappertit  would  sometimes  fume  within  that  precious  cask,  his 
body,  until,  with  great  foam  and  froth  and  splutter,  it  would 
force  a  vent,  and  carry  all  before  it.  It  was  his  custom  to  re¬ 
mark,  in  reference  to  any  one  of  these  occasions,  that  his  soul 
had  got  into  his  head ;  and  in  this  novel  kind  of  intoxication, 
many  scrapes  and  mishaps  befell  him,  which  he  had  frequently 
concealed  with  no  small  difficulty  from  his  worthy  master. 

^  |  "'HE  widow,  to  whom  each  painful  mile  seemed  longer 
X  than  the  last,  toiled  wearily  along ;  while  Barnaby, 
yielding  to  every  inconstant  impulse,  fluttered  here  and  there, 
now  leaving  her  far  behind,  now  lingering  far  behind  himself, 
now  darting  into  some  by-lane  or  path  and  leaving  her  to  pur¬ 
sue  her  way  alone,  until  he  stealthily  emerged  again  and  came 
upon  her  with  a  wild  shout  of  merriment,  as  his  wayward  and 
capricious  nature  prompted.  Now  he  would  call  to  her  from 
the  topmost  branch  of  some  high  tree  by  the  roadside ;  now, 
using  his  tall  staff  as  a  leaping-pole,  come  flying  over  ditch  or 
hedge  or  five-barred  gate  ;  now  run  with  surprising  swiftness  for 
a  mile  or  more  on  the  straight  road,  and  halting,  sport  upon  a 
patch  of  grass  with  Grip  till  she  came  up.  These  were  his  de¬ 
lights  ;  and  when  his  patient  mother  heard  his  merry  voice,  or 
looked  into  his  flushed  and  healthy  face,  she  would  not  have 
abated  them  by  one  sad  word  or  murmur,  though  each  had 


190 


BEAUTIES  OF  DIC KEN'S. 


been  to  her  a  source  of  suffering  in  the  same  degree  as  it  was 
to  him  of  pleasure. 

It  is  something  to  look  upon  enjoyment,  so  that  it  be  free 
and  wild  and  in  the  face  of  nature,  though  it  is  but  the  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  an  idiot.  It  is  something  to  know  that  Heaven  has 
left  the  capacity  of  gladness  in  such  a  creature’s  breast;  it  is 
something  to  be  assured  that,  however  lightly  men  may  crush 
that  faculty  in  their  fellows,  the  Great  Creator  of  mankind  im¬ 
parts  it  even  to  His  despised  and  slighted  work.  Who  would 
not  rather  see  a  poor  idiot  happy  in  the  sunlight,  than  a  wise 
man  pining  in  a  darkened  jail  ! 

Ye  men  of  gloom  and  austerity,  who  paint  the  face  of  In¬ 
finite  Benevolence  with  an  eternal  frown ;  read  in  the  Everlast¬ 
ing  Book,  wide  open  to  your  view,  the  lesson  it  would  teach. 
Its  pictures  are  not  in  black  and  sombre  hues,  but  bright  and 
glowing  tints ;  its  music — save  when  ye  drown  it — is  not  in 
sighs  and  groans,  but  songs  and  cheerful  sounds.  Listen  to  the 
million  voices  in  the  summer  air,  and  find  one  dismal  as  your  own. 
Remember,  if  ye  can,  the  sense  of  hope  and  pleasure  which 
every  glad  return  of  day  awakens  in  the  breast  of  all  your  kind 
who  have  not  changed  their  nature ;  and  learn  some  wisdom 
even  from  the  witless,  when  their  hearts  are  lifted  up  they  know 
not  why,  by  all  the  mirth  and  happiness  it  brings. 


THIS  Lion  or  landlord — for  he \vas  called  both  man  and 
beast,  by  reason  of  his  having  instructed  the  artist  who 
painted  his  sign,  to  convey  into  the  features  of  the  lordly  brute 
whose  effigy  it  bore,  as  near  a  counterpart  of  his  own  face  as 
his  skill  could  compass  and  devise — was  a  gentleman  almost  as 
quick  of  apprehension,  and  of  almost  as  subtle  a  wit,  as  the 
mighty  John  himself.  But  the  difference  between  them  lay  in 
this  :  that  whereas  Mr.  Willet’s  extreme  sagacity  and  acuteness 
were  the  efforts  of  unassisted  nature,  the  Lion  stood  indebted, 
in  no  small  amount,  to  beer  ;  of  which  he  swigged  such  copious 
draughts,  that  most  of  his  faculties  were  utterly  drowned  and 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS. 


I9I 

washed  away,  except  the  one  great  faculty  of  sleep,  which  he 
retained  in  surprising  perfection.  The  creaking  Lion  over  the 
house-door  was,  therefore,  to  say  the  truth,  rather  a  drowsy, 
tame,  and  feeble  lion ;  and  as  these  social  representatives  of  a 
savage  class  are  usually  of  a  conventional  character  (being  de¬ 
picted,  for  the  most  part,  in  impossible  attitudes  and  of  unearthly 
colors)  he  was  frequently  supposed  by  the  more  ignorant  and 
uninformed  among  the  neighbors,  to  be  the  veritable  portrait  of 
the  host  as  he  appeared  on  the  occasion  of  some  great  funeral 
ceremony  or  public  mourning. 

IORD  GEORGE  GORDON,  the  lord,  the  great  person. 

v  age,  who  did  the  Maypole  so  much  honor,  was  about  the 
middle  height,  of  a  slender  make  and  sallow  complexion,  with 
an  aquiline  nose,  and  long  hair  of  a  reddish  brown,  combed 
perfectly  straight  and  smooth  about  his  ears,  and  slightly  pow¬ 
dered,  but  without  the  faintest  vestige  of  a  curl.  He  was  attired, 
under  his  great-coat,  in  a  full  suit  of  black,  quite  free  from  any 
ornament,  and  of  the  most  precise  and  sober  cut.  The  gravity 
of  his  dress,  together  with  a  certain  lankness  of  cheek  and  stiff¬ 
ness  of  deportment,  added  nearly  ten  years  to  his  age,  but  his 
figure  was  that  of  one  not  yet  past  thirty.  As  he  stood  musing 
in  the  red  glow  of  the  fire,  it  was  striking  to  observe  his  very 
bright  large  eye,  which  betrayed  a  restlessness  of  thought  and 
purpose,  singularly  at  variance  with  the  studied  composure  and 
sobriety  of  his  mien,  and  with  his  quaint  and  sad  apparel.  It 
had  nothing  harsh  or  cruel  in  its  expression ;  neither  had  his  face, 
which  was  thin  and  mild,  and  wore  an  air  of  melancholy  ;  but  it 
was  suggestive  of  an  indefinable  uneasiness,  which  infected  those 
who  looked  upon  him,  and  filled  them  with  a  kind  of  pity  fo;* 
the  man  :  though  why  it  did  so,  they  would  have  had  some 
trouble  to  explain. 

THIS  gentleman  had  an  overhanging  brow,  great  hands  and 
feet  and  ears,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  made 
an  unnatural  retreat  into  his  head,  and  to  have  dug  themselves 


192 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


a  cave  to  hide  in.  His  manner  was  smooth  and  humble,  but 
very  sly  and  slinking.  He  wore  the  aspect  of  a  man  who  was 
always  lying  in  wait  for  something  that  wouldrtt  come  to  pass  ; 
but  he  looked  patient — very  patient — and  fawned  like  a  spaniel 
dog.  ,  Even  now,  while  he  warmed  and  rubbed  his  hands  before 
the  blaze,  he  had  the  air  of  one  who  only  presumed  to  enjoy  it 
in  his  degree  as  a  commoner ;  and  though  he  knew  his  lord 
was  not  regarding  him,  he  looked  into  his  face  from  time  to  time, 
and,  with  a  meek  and  deferential  manner,  smiled  as  if  for  prac¬ 
tice. 


\ 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PLACES  AND  THINGS. 


193 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PLACES  AND 

THINGS. 

- o - 


CHAPTER  IV. 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


U 


ON’S  our  house,  Mas’r  Davy  !  ” 


I  looked  in  all  directions,  as  far  as  1^  could  stare 
over  the  wilderness,  and  away  at  the  sea,  and  away  at  the 
river,  but  no  house  could  /  make  out.  There  was  a  black 
barge,  or  some  other  kind  of  superannuated  boat,  not  far  off, 
high  and  dry  on  the  ground,  with  an  iron  funnel  sticking  out  of 
it  for  a  chimney  and  smoking  very  cosily  ;  but  nothing  else  in 
the  way  of  a  habitation  that  was  visible  to  me. 

“  That’s  not  it  ?  ”  said  I.  “  That  ship-looking  thing  ?  ” 

“  That’s  it,  Mas’r  David,”  returned  Ham. 

If  it  had  been  Aladdin’s  palace,  roc’s  egg  and  all,  I  suppose 
I  could  not  have  been  more  charmed  with  the  romantic  idea 
of  living  in  it.  There  was  a  delightful  door  cut  in  the  side, 
and  it  was  roofed  in,  and  there  were  little  windows  in  it ;  but 
the  wonderful  charm  of  it  was,  that  it  was  a  real  boat  which 
had  no  doubt  been  upon  the  water  hundreds  of  times,  and 
which  had  never  been  intended  to  be  lived  in,  on  dry  land. 
That  was  the  captivation  of  it  to  me.  If  it  had  ever  been 
meant  to  be  lived  in,  I  might  have  thought  it  small,  or  incon¬ 
venient,  or  lonely ;  but  never  having  been  designed  for  any 
such  use,  it  became  a  perfect  abode. 

It  was  beautifully  clean  inside,  and  as  tidy  as  possible. 


194 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


There  was  a  table,  and  a  Dutch  clock,  and  a  chest  of  drawers, 
and  on  the  chest  of  drawers  there  was  a  tea-tray  with  a  painting 
on  it  of  a  lady  with  a  parasol,  taking  a  walk  with  a  military¬ 
looking  child  who  was  trundling  a  hoop.  The  tray  was  kept 
from  tumbling  down,  by  a  Bible  :  and  the  tray,  if  it  had  tum¬ 
bled  down,  would  have  smashed  a  quantity  of  cups  and  saucers 
and  a  teapot  that  were  grouped  around  the  book.  On  the 
walls  there  were  some  common  colored  pictures,  framed  and 
glazed,  of  Scripture  subjects  ;  such  as  I  have  never  seen  since 
in  the  hands  of  pedlers,  without  seeing  the  whole  interior  of 
Peggotty’s  brother’s  house  again,  at  one  view.  Abraham  in 
red  going  to  sacrifice  Isaac  in  blue,  and  Daniel  in  yellow  cast 
into  a  den  of  green  lions,  were  the  most  prominent  of  these. 
Over  the  little  mantel-shelf,  was  a  picture  of  the  Sarah 
Jane  lugger,  built  at  Sunderland,  with  a  real  little  wooden  stern 
stuck  on  to  it ;  a  work  of  art,  combining  composition  with 
carpentry,  which  I  considered-  to  be  one  of  the  most  enviable 
possessions  that  the  world  could  afford.  There  were  some 
hooks  in  the  beams  of  the  ceiling,  the  use  of  which  I  did  not 
divine  then;  and  some  lockers  and  boxes  and  conveniences 
of  that  sort,  which  served  for  seats  and  eked  out  the  chairs. 

THE  walls  were  whitewashed  as  white  as  milk,  and  the 
patchwork  counterpane  made  my  eyes  quite  ache  with 
its  brightness.  One  thing  I  particularly  noticed  in  this  de¬ 
lightful  house,  was  the  smell  of  fish ;  which  was  so  searching, 
that  when  I  took  out  my  pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  my  nose, 
I  found  it  smell  exactly  as  if  it  had  wrapped  up  a  lobster.  On 
my  imparting  this  discovery  in  confidence  to  Peggotty,  she 
informed  me  that  her  brother  dealt  in  lobsters,  crabs,  and 
crawfish  ;  and  I  afterwards  found  that  a  heap  of  these  creat¬ 
ures,  in  a  state  of  wonderful  conglomeration  with  one  an¬ 
other,  and  never  leaving  off  pinching  whatever  they  laid  hold 
of,  were  usually  to  be  found  in  a  little  wooden  outhouse 
where  the  pots  and  kettles  were  kept. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PLACES  AND  THINGS. 


195 


BUT  I  am  afraid  I  had  a  supreme  satisfaction,  of  a  personal 
and  professional  nature,  in  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Barkis’s 
will,  and  expounding  its  contents. 

I  may  claim  the  merit  of  having  originated  the  suggestion 
that  the  will  should  be  looked  for  in  the  box.  After  some 
search,  it  was  found  in  the  box,  at  the  bottom  of  a  horse’s  nose¬ 
bag  ;  wherein  (besides  hay)  there  was  discovered  an  old  gold 
watch,  with  chain  and  seals,  which  Mr.  Barkis  had  worn  on  his 
wedding-day,  and  which  had  never  been  seen  before  or  sinfce  ; 
a  silver  tobacco-stopper,  in  the  form  of  a  leg ;  an  imitation 
lemon,  full  of  minute  cups  and  saucers,  which  I  have  some 
idea  Mr.  Barkis  must  have  purchased  to  present  to  me  when  I 
was  a  child,  and  afterwards  found  himself  unable  to  part  with  : 
eighty-seven  guineas  and  a  half,  in  guineas  and  half  guineas  ; 
two  hundred  and  ten  pounds,  in  perfectly  clean  Bank  notes ; 
certain  receipts  for  Bank  of  England  stock  ;  an  old  horse-shoe, 
a  bad  shilling,  a  piece  of  camphor,  and  an  oyster-shell.  From 
the  circumstance  of  the  latter  article  having  been  much  pol¬ 
ished,  and  displaying  prismatic  colors  on  the  inside,  I  conclude 
that  Mr.  Barkis  had  some  general  ideas  about  pearls,  which 
never  resolved  themselves  into  anything  definite. 

For  years  and  years,  Mr.  Barkis  had  carried  this  box,  on  all 
his  journeys,  every  day.  That  it  might  the  better  escape 
notice,  he  had  invented  a  fiction  that  it  belonged  to  “  Mr. 
Blackboy,”  and  was  “  to  be  left  with  Barkis  till  called  for;”  a 
fable  he  had  elaborately  written  on  the  lid,  in  characters  now 
scarcely  legible. 

Ej'  XCELLENT  fellow  as  I  knew  Traddles  to  be,  and 
v  warmly  attached  to  him  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  wish¬ 
ing,  on  that  delicate  occasion,  that  he  had  never  contracted 
the  habit  of  brushing  his  hair  so  very  upright.  It  gave  him  a 
surprised  look — not  to  say  a  hearth-broomy  kind  of  expression 
— which,  my  apprehensions  whispered,  might  be  fatal  to  us. 

I  took  the  liberty  of  mentioning  it  to  Traddles,  as  we  were 
walking  to  Putney  ;  and  saying  that  if  he  would  smooth  it  down 
a  little — • 


196 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  My  dear  Copperfield,”  said  Traddles,  lifting  off  his  hat,  and 
rubbing  his  hair  all  kinds  of  ways,  “nothing  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure.  But  it  won’t.” 

“  Won’t  be  smoothed  down  ?”  said  I. 

“  No,”  said  Traddles.  “  Nothing  will  induce  it.  If  I  was  to 
carry  a  half-hundredweight  upon  it,  all  the  way  to  Putney,  it 
would  be  up  again  the  moment  the  weight  was  taken  off. 
You  have  no  idea  what  obstinate  hair  mine  is,  Copperfield.  I 
an/  quite  a  fretful  porcupine.” 

I  was  a  little  disappointed,  I  must  confess,  but  thoroughly 
charmed  by  his  good-nature  too.  I  told  him  how  I  esteemed 
his  good-nature ;  and  said  that  his  hair  must  have  taken  all  the 
obstinacy  out  of  his  character,  for  he  had  none. 

“Oh!”  returned  Traddles,  laughing.  “I  assure  you,  it’s 
quite  an  old  story,  my  unfortunate  hair.  My  uncle’s  wife 
couldn’t  bear  it.  She  said  it  exasperated  her.  It  stood  very 
much  in  my  way,  too,  when  I  first  fell  in  love  with  Sophy. 
Very  much  !  ” 

“Did  she  object  to  it  ?  ” 

“ She  didn’t,”  rejoined  Traddles;  “but  her  eldest  sister — 
the  one  that’s  the  Beauty — quite  made  game  of  it,  I  under¬ 
stand.  In  fact,  all  the  sisters  laugh  at  it.” 

“  Agreeable  !  ”  said  I. 

“  Yes,”  returned  Traddles  with  perfect  innocence,  “it’s  a 
joke  for  us.  They  pretend  that  Sophy  has  a  lock  of  it  in  her 
desk,  and  is  obliged  to  shut  it  in  a  clasped  book,  to  keep  it 
down.  We  laugh  about  it.” 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 

AS  this  fair  matron  sat  beside  the  fire,  she  glanced  occasion¬ 
ally,  with  all  the  pride  of  ownership,  about  the  room, 
which  was  a  large  apartment,  such  as  one  may  see  in  country 


I  DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PLACES  AND  THINGS. 


197 


places,  with  a  low  roof  and  a  sunken  flooring,  all  down-hill 
from  the  door,  and  a  descent  of  two  steps  on  the  inside  so  ex¬ 
quisitely  unexpected,  that  strangers,  despite  the  most  elaborate 
cautioning,  usually  dived  in  head-first,  as  into  a  plunging-bath. 
It  was  none  of  your  frivolous  and  preposterously  bright  bed¬ 
rooms,  where  nobody  can  close  an  eye  with  any  kind  of  pro¬ 
priety  or  decent  regard  to  the  associations  of  ideas ;  but  it  was 
a  good,  dull,  leaden,  drowsy  place,  where  every  article  of  furni¬ 
ture  reminded  you  that  you  came  there  to  sleep,  and  that  you 
were  expected  to  go  to  sleep.  There  was  no  wakeful  reflec¬ 
tion  of  the  fire  there,  as  in  your  modern  chambers,  which  upon 
the  darkest  nights  have  a  watchful  consciousness  of  French 
polish  ;  the  old  Spanish  mahogany  winked  at  it  now  and  then, 
as  a  dozing  cat  or  dog  might,  nothing  more.  The  very  size 
and  shape,  and  hopeless  immovability,  of  the  bedstead  and 
wardrobe,  and  in  a  minor  degree  of  even  the  chairs  and  tables, 
provoked  sleep  ;  they  were  plainly  apoplectic,  and  disposed  to 
snore. 

There  were  no  staring  portraits  to  remonstrate  with  you  for 
being  lazy;  no  round-eyed  birds  upon  the  curtains,  disgustingly 
wide-awake,  and  insufferably  prying.  The  thick  neutral  hang¬ 
ings,  and  the  dark  blinds,  and  the  heavy  heap  of  bedclothes, 
were  all  designed  to  hold  in  sleep,  and  act  as  non-conductors 
to  the  day  and  getting  up.  Even  the  old  stuffed  fox  upon  the 
top  of  the  wardrobe  was  devoid  of  any  spark  of  vigilance,  for 
his  glass  eye  had  fallen  out,  and  he  slumbered  as  he  stood. 

HE  chairs  in  Mrs.  Gamp’s  apartment  were  extremely 


X  large  and  broad-backed,  which  was  more  than  a  sufficient 
reason  for  there  being  but  two  in  number.  They  were  both 
elbow-chairs,  of  ancient  mahogany,  and  were  chiefly  valuable 
for  the  slippery  nature  of  their  seats,  which  had  been  originally 
horse-hair,  but  were  now  covered  with  a  shiny  substance  of  a 
bluish  tint,  from  which  the  visitors  began  to  slide  away  with  a 
dismayed  countenance,  immediately  after  sitting  down.  What 


198 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Mrs.  Gamp  wanted  in  chairs  she  made  up  in  bandboxes,  of 
which  she  had  a  great  collection,  devoted  to  the  reception  of 
various  miscellaneous  valuables,  which  were  not,  however,  as 
well  protected  as  the  good  woman,  by  a  pleasant  fiction, 
seemed  to  think  •  for,  though  every  bandbox  had  a  carefully 
closed  lid,  not  one  among  them  had  a  bottom ;  owing  to  which 
cause,  the  property  within  was  merely,  as  it  were,  extinguished. 
The  chest  of  drawers  having  been  originally  made  to  stand  upon 
the  top  of  another  chest,  had  a  dwarfish,  elfin  look,  alone ;  but 
in  regard  of  its  security  it  had  a  great  advantage  over  the  band- 
boxes,  for  as  all  the  handles  had  been  long  ago  pulled  off,  it 
was  very  difficult  to  get  at  its  contents.  This  indeed  was  only 
to  be  done  by  one  of  two  devices  ;  either  by  tilting  the  whole 
structure  forward  until  all  the  drawers  fell  out  together,  or  by 
opening  them  singly  with  knives,  like  oysters. 

Mrs.  Gamp  stored  all  her  household  matters  in  a  little  cup¬ 
board  by  the  fireplace  ;  beginning  below  the  surface  fas  in 
nature)  with  the  coals,  and  mounting  gradually  upwards  to  the 
spirits,  which,  from  motives  of  delicacy,  she  kept  in  a  tea-pot. 
The  chimney-piece  was  ornamented  with  a  small  almanac, 
marked  here  and  there  in  Mrs.  Gamp’s  own  hand,  with  a  mem¬ 
orandum  of  the  date  at  which  some  lady  was  expected  to  fall 
due.  It  was  also  embellished  with  three  profiles  :  one,  in 
colors,  of  Mrs.  Gamp  herself  in  early  life  ;  one,  in  bronze,  of  a 
lady  in  feathers,  supposed  to  be  Mrs.  Harris,  as  she  appeared 
when  dressed  for  a  ball ;  and  one,  in  black,  of  Mr.  Gamp,  de¬ 
ceased.  The  last  was  a  full-length,  in  order  that  the  likeness 
might  be  rendered  more  obvious  and  forcible,  by  the  introduc¬ 
tion  of  the  wooden  leg. 

A  pair  of  bellows,  a  pair  of  pattens,  a  toasting-fork,  a  kettle, 
a  pap-boat,  a  spoon  for  the  administration  of  medicine  to  the 
refractory,  and  lastly,  Mrs.  Gamp’s  umbrella,  which,  as  some 
thing  of  great  price  and  rarity,  was  displayed  with  particular 
ostentation,  completed  the  decorations  of  the  chimney  piece 
and  adjacent  wall.  Towards  these  objects  Mrs.  Gamp  raised 
her  eyes  in  satisfaction  when  she  had  arranged  the  tea-board, 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PEACES  AND  THINGS. 


I99 


and  had  concluded  her  arrangements  for  the  reception  of  Bet¬ 
sey  Prig,  even  unto  the  setting  forth  of  two  pounds  of  Newcas¬ 
tle  salmon,  intensely  pickled. 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT, 


HE  furniture,  at  once  spare  and  lumbering,  hid  in  the 


X  rooms  rather  than  furnished  them,  and  there  was  no  color 
in  all  the  house ;  such  color  as  had  ever  been  there,  had  long 
ago  started  away  on  lost  sunbeams — got  itself  absorbed,  per¬ 
haps,  into  flowers,  butterflies,  plumage  of  birds,  precious  stones, 
what  not.  There  was  not  one  straight  floor,  from  the  founda¬ 
tion  to  the  roof ;  the  ceilings  were  so  fantastically  clouded  by 
smoke  and  dust,  that  old  women  might  have  told  fortunes  in 
them,  better  than  in  grouts  of  tea ;  the  dead-cold  hearths 
showed  no  traces  of  having  ever  been  warmed,  but  in  heaps  of 
soot  that  had  tumbled  down  the  chimneys,  and  eddied  about 
in  little  dusky  whirlwinds  when  the  doors  were  opened.  In 
what  had  once  been  a  drawing-room,  there  were  a  pair  of 
meagre  mirrors,  with  dismal  processions  of  black  figures  carry¬ 
ing  black  garlands,  walking  round  the  frames ;  but  even  these 
were  short  of  Reads  and  legs,  and  one  undertaker-like  cupid 
had  swung  round  on  his  own  axis  and  got  upside  down,  and 
another  had  fallen  off  altogether. 

A  GREAT  white  cap,  with  a  quantity  of  opaque  frilling 
that  was  always  flapping  about,  apologized  for  Maggy’s 
baldness,  and  made  it  so  very  difficult  for  her  old  black  bonnet 
to  retain  its  place  upon  her  head,  that  it  held  on  round  her 
neck  like  a  gypsy’s  baby.  A  commission  of  haberdashers 
could  alone  have  reported  what  the  rest  of  her  poor  dress  was 
made  of;  but  it  had  a  strong  general  resemblance  to  sea-weed, 


200 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


with  here  and  there  a  gigantic  tea-leaf.  Her  shawl  looked  par¬ 
ticularly  like  a  tea-leaf,  after  long  infusion. 

THIS  great  and  fortunate  man  had  provided  that  extensive 
bosom,  which  required  so  much  room  to  be  unfeeling 
enough  in,  with  a  nest  of  crimson  and  gold  some  fifteen  years 
before.  It  was  not  a  bosom  to  repose  upon,  but  it  was  a  cap¬ 
ital  bosom  to  hang  jewels  upon.  Mr.  Merdle  wanted  something 
to  hang  jewels  upon,  and  he  bought  it  for  the  purpose.  Storr 
and  Mortimer  might  have  married  on  the  same  speculation. 

like  all  his  other  speculations,  it  was  sound  and  successful. 
The  jewels  shone  to  the  richest  advantage.  The  bosom,  mov¬ 
ing  in  Society  with  the  jewels  displayed  upon  it,  attracted  gen¬ 
eral  admiration. 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE. 

IT  was  spacious  enough  in  all  conscience,  occupying  the 
whole  depth  of  the  house,  and  having  at  either  end  a  great 
bay-window,  as  large  as  many  modern  rooms  ;  in  which  some 
few  panes  of  stained  glass,  emblazoned  with  fragments  of  ar¬ 
morial  bearings,  though  cracked,  and  patched,  and  shattered, 
yet  remained  ;  attesting,  by  their  presence,  that  the  former 
owner  had  made  the  very  light  subservient  to  his  state,  and 
pressed  the  sun  itself  into  his  list  of  flatterers  ;  bidding  it,  when 
it  shone  into  his  chamber,  reflect  the  badges  of  his  ancient 
family,  and  take  new  hues  and  colors  from  their  pride. 

But  those  were  old  days,  and  now  every  little  ray  came  and 
went  as  it  would ;  telling  the  plain,  bare,  searching  truth. 

IT  came  on  darker  and  darker.  The  old-fashioned  furni¬ 
ture  of  the  chamber,  which  was  a  kind  of  hospital  for  all 
the  invalided  movables  in  the  house,  grew  indistinct  and 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PLACES  AND  THINGS. 


201 


shadowy  in  its  many  shapes ;  chairs  and  tables,  which  by  day 
were  as  honest  cripples  as  need  be,  assumed  a  doubtful  and 
mysterious  character  ;  and  one  old  leprous  screen  of  faded  In¬ 
dia  leather  and  gold  binding,  which  had  kept  out  many  a  cold 
breath  of  air  in  days  of  yore  and  shut  in  many  a  jolly  face, 
frowned  on  him  with  a  spectral  aspect,  and  stood  at  full  height 
in  its  allotted  corner,  like  some  gaunt  ghost  who  waited  to  be 
questioned.  A  portrait  opposite  the  window — a  queer,  old 
gray-eyed  general,  in  an  oval  frame — seemed  to  wink  and  doze 
as  the  light  decayed,  and  at  length,  when  the  last  faint  glim¬ 
mering  speck  of  day  went  out,  to  shut  its  eyes  in  good  earnest, 
and  fall  sound  asleep.  There  was  such  a  hush  and  mystery 
about  everything,  that  Joe  could  not  help  following  its  example  ; 
and  so  went  off  into  a  slumber  likewise,  and  dreamed  of  Dolly, 
till  the  clock  of  Chigwell  church  struck  two. 


FROM  OLIVER  TWIST. 


HE  room  in  which  the  boys  were  fed,  was  a  large  stone 


-Ik  hall,  with  a  copper  at  one  end  :  out  of  which  the  master, 
dressed  in  an  apron  for  the  purpose,  and  assisted  by  one  or 
two  women,  ladled  the  gruel  at  meal-times.  Of  this  festive 
composition,  each  boy  had  one  porringer,  and  no  more — ex¬ 
cept  on  occasions  of  great  public  rejoicing,  when  he  had  two 
ounces  and  a  quarter  of  bread  besides.  The  bowls  never 
wanted  washing.  The  boys  polished  them  with  their  spoons 
till  they  shone  again ;  and  when  they  had  performed  this 
'operation  (which  never  took  very  long,  the  spoons  being 
nearly  as  large  as  the  bowls),  they  would  sit  staring  at  the’ 
copper,  with  such  eager  eyes,  as  if  they  could  have  devoured 
the  very  bricks  of  which  it  was  composed ;  employing  them¬ 
selves,  meanwhile,  in  sucking  their  fingers  most  assiduously, 
with  a  view  of  catching  up  any  stray  splashes  of  gruel  that 


202 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


might  have  been  cast  thereon.  Boys  have  generally  excellent 
^  appetites.  Oliver  Twist  and  his  companions  suffered  the 
tortures  of  slow  starvation  for  three  months  :  at  last  they  got 
so  voracious  and  wild  with  hunger,  that  one  boy,  who  was  tall 
for  his  age,  and  hadn’t  been  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  (for  his 
father  had  kept  a  small  cook’s  shop):  hinted  darkly  to  his  com¬ 
panions,  that  unless  he  had  another  basin  of  gruel  per  diem ,  he 
was  afraid  he  might  some  night  happen  to  eat  the  boy  who 
slept  next  him,  who  happened  to  be  a  weakly  youth  of  tender 
age.  He  had  a  wild,  hungry  eye  ;  and  they  implicitly  believed  ' 
him.  A  council  was  held  ;  lots  were  cast  who  should  walk  up 
to  the  master  after  supper  that  evening,  and  ask  for  more  ;  and 
it  fell  to  Oliver  Twist. 


FROM  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

IT  was  a  picturesque  old  house,  in  a  fine  park  richly  wooded. 

Among  the  trees,  and  not  far  from  the  residence,  he 
pointed  out  the  spire  of  the  little  church  of  which  he  had 
spoken.  O,  the  solemn  woods  over  which  the  light  and 
shadow  travelled  swiftly,  as  if  heavenly  wings  were  sweeping 
on  benignant  errands  through  the  summer  air ;  the  smooth 
green  slopes,  the  glittering  water,  the  garden  where  the  flowers 
were  so  symmetrically  arranged  in  clusters  of  the  richest  colors, 
how  beautiful  they  looked  !  The  house,  with  gable  and  chim¬ 
ney,  and  tower,  and  turret,  and  dark  doorway,  and  broad 
terrace-walk,  twining  among  the  balustrades  of  which,  and 
lying  heaped  upon  the  vases,  there  was  one  great  flush  of  roses, 
seemed  scarcely  real  in  its  light  solidity,  and  in  the  serene  and 
peaceful  hush  that  rested  on  all  around  it.  To  Ada  and  to  me, 
that,  above  all,  appeared  the  pervading  influence.  On  every¬ 
thing,  house,  garden,  terrace,  green  slopes,  water,  old  oaks, 
fern,  moss,  woods  again,  and  far  away  across  the  openings  in 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PLACES  AND  THINGS. 


203 


the  prospect,  to  the  distance  lying  wide  before  us  with  a  pur¬ 
ple  bloom  upon  it,  there  seemed  to  be  such  undisturbed 
repose. 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

THE  fowls  who  peck  about  the  kennels,  jerking  their 
bodies  hither  and  thither  with  a  gait  which  none  but 
town  fowls  are  ever  seen  to  adopt,  and  which  any  country  cock 
or  hen  would  be  puzzled  to  understand,  are  perfectly  in  keep¬ 
ing  with  the  crazy  habitations  of  their  owners.  Dingy,  ill- 
plumed,  drowsy  flutterers,  sent,  like  many  of  the  neighboring 
children,  to  get  a  livelihood  in  the  streets,  they  hop,  from  stone 
to  stone,  in  forlorn  search  of  some  hidden  eatable  in  the  mud, 
and  can  scarcely  raise  a  crow  among  them.  The  only  one 
with  anything  approaching  to  a  voice,  is  an  aged  bantam  at  the 
baker’s ;  and  even  he  is  hoarse,  in  consequence  of  bad  living 
in  his  last  place. 


204 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


REFLECTIONS. 

- o- - 

CHAPTER  V. 

FROM  THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

IN  the  majority  of  cases,  conscience  is  an  elastic  and  very 
flexible  article,  which  will  bear  a  deal  of  stretching  and 
adapt  itself  to  a  great  variety  of  circumstances.  Some  people 
by  prudent  management  and  leaving  it  off  piece  by  piece,  like 
a  flannel  waistcoat  in  warm  weather,  even  contrive,  in  time,  to 
dispense  with  it  altogether ;  but  there  be  others  who  can  assume 
the  garment  and  throw  it  off  at  pleasure ;  and  this,  being  the 
greatest  and  most  convenient  improvement,  is  the  one  most  in 
vogue. 

WE  call  this  a  state  of  childishness,  but  it  is  the  same 
poor  hollow  mockery  of  it,  that  death  is  of  sleep. 
Where,  in  the  dull  eyes  of  doting  men,  are  the  laughing  light 
and  life  of  childhood,  the  gayety  that  has  known  no  check,  the 
frankness  that  has  felt  no  chill,  the  hope  that  has  never  with¬ 
ered,  the  joys  that  fade  in  blossoming  ?  Where,  in  the  sharp 
lineaments  of  rigid  and  unsightly  death,  is  the  calm  beauty  of 
slumber,  telling  of  rest  for  the  waking  hours  that  are  past,  and 
gentle  hopes  and  loves  for  tfiose  vrhich  are  to  come  ?  Lay 
death  and  sleep  down,  side  by  side,  and  say  who  shall  find  the 
two  akin.  Send  forth  the  child  and  childish  man  together,  and 
blush  for  the  pride  that  libels  our  own  old  happy  state,  and 
gives  its  title  to  an  ugly  and  distorted  image. 


REFLECTIONS. 


205 


WHY  is  it  that  we  can  better  bear  to  part  in  spirit  than 
in  body,  and  while  we  have  the  fortitude  to  act  fare¬ 
well  have  not  the  nerve  to  say  it?  On  the  eve  of  long  voyages 
or  an  absence  of  many  years,  friends  who  are  tenderly  attached 
will  separate  with  the  usual  look,  the  usual  pressure  of  the 
hand,  planning  one  final  interview  for  the  morrow,  while  each 
one  knows  that  it  is  but  a  poor  feint  to  save  the  pain  of  utter¬ 
ing  that  one  word,  and  that  the  meeting  will  never  be.  Should 
possibilities  be  worse  to  bear  than  certainties  ?  We  do  not 
shun  our  dying  friends ;  the  not  having  distinctly  taken  leave 
of  one  among  them,  whom  we  left  in  all  kindness  and  affec¬ 
tion,  will  often  embitter  the  whole  remainder  of  a  life. 

AND  let  me  linger  in  this  place,  for  an  instant,  to  remark, 
if  ever  household  affections  and  loves  are  graceful 
things,  they  are  graceful  in  the  poor.  The  ties  that  bind  the 
wealthy  and  the  proud  to  home  may  be  forged  on  earth,  but 
those  which  link  the  poor  man  to  his  humble  hearth  are  of  the 
truer  metal  and  bear  the  stamp  of  Heaven.  The  man  of  high 
descent  may  love  the  halls  and  lands  of  his  inheritance  as  a 
part  of  himself;  as  trophies  of  his  birth  and  power  ;  his  asso¬ 
ciations  with  them  are  associations  of  pride  and  wealth  and 
triumph  ;  the  poor  man’s  attachment  to  the  tenements  he 
holds,  which  strangers  have  held  before,  and  may  to-morrow 
occupy  again,  as  a  worthier  root,  struck  deep  into  a  purer  soil. 
His  household  gods  are  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  no  alloy  of 
silver,  gold,  or  precious  stone  :  he  has  no  property  but  in  the 
affections  of  his  own  heart ;  and  when  they  endear  bare  floors 
and  walls,  despite  of  rags  and  toil  and  scanty  fare,  that  man 
has  his  love  of  home  from  God,  and  his  rude,  hut  becomes  a 
solemn  place. 

Oh !  if  those  who  rule  the  destinies  of  nations  would  but  re¬ 
member  this — if  they  would  but  think  how  hard  it  is  for  the 
very  poor  to  have  engendered  in  their  hearts  that  love  of  home 
from  which  all  domestic  virtues  spring,  when  they  live  in  dense 


2o6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


and  squalid  masses  where  social  decency  is  lost,  or  rather 
never  found — if  they  would  but  turn  aside  from  the  wide  thor¬ 
oughfares  and  great  houses,  and  strive  to  improve  the  wretched 
dwellings  in  by-ways  where  only  Poverty  may  walk — many  low 
roofs  would  point  more  truly  to  the  sky  than  the  loftiest 
steeple  that  now  rears  proudly  up  from  the  midst  of  guilt,  and 
crime,  and  horrible  disease,  to  mock  them  by  its  contrast.  In 
hollow  voices  from  Workhouse,  Hospital,  and  Jail,  this  truth  is 
preached  from  day  to  day,  and  has  been  proclaimed  for  years. 
It  is  no  light  matter — no  outcry  from  the  working  vulgar — no 
mere  question  of  the  people’s  health  and  comforts  that  maybe 
whistled  down  on  Wednesday  nights.  In  love  of  home,  the 
love  of  country  has  its  rise  ;  and  who  are  the  truer  patriots  or 
the  better  in  time  of  need — those  who  venerate  the  land, 
owning  its  wood,  and  stream,  and  earth,  and  all  that  they  pro¬ 
duce  ?  or  those  who  love  their  country,  boasting  not  a  foot  of 
ground  in  all  its  wide  domain  ? 


BUT,  before  they  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  lane,  the 
man  came  running  after  them,  and,  pressing  her  hand, 
left  something  in  it — two  old,  battered,  smoke-incrusted  penny 
pieces.  Who  knows  but  they  shone  as  brightly  in  the  eyes  of 
angels,  as  golden  gifts  that  have  been  chronicled  on  tombs  ? 

OU  were  telling  me,”  she  said,  “about  your  gardening, 
i  Do  you  ever  plant  things  here  ?  ” 

“  In  the  churchyard?  ”  returned  the  sexton.  “Not  I.” 

“  I  have  seen  some  flowers  and  little  shrubs  about,”  the 
child  rejoined ;  “  there  are  some  over  there,  you  see.  I 
thought  they  were  of  your  rearing,  though  indeed  they  grow 
but  poorly.” 

“They  grow  as  Heaven  wills,”  said  the  old  man:  “and  it 
kindly  ordains  that  they  shall  never  flourish  here.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  you.” 


REFLECTIONS. 


207 


“Why,  this  it  is,”  said  the  sexton.  “They  mark  the  graves 
of  those  who  had  very  tender,  loving  friends.” 

-  “  I  was  sure  they  did  !  ”  the  child  exclaimed.  “I  am  very 
glad  to  know  they  do  !  ” 

“Aye,”  returned  the  old  man,  “but  stay.  Look  at  them. 
See  how  they  hang  their  heads,  and  droop,  and  wither.  Do 
you  guess  the  reason?”  * 

“  No,”  the  child  replied. 

“  Because  the  memory  of  those  who  lie  below  passes  away 
so  soon.  At  first  they  tend  them,  morning,  noon,  and  night ; 
they  soon  begin  to  come  less  frequently ;  from  once  a  day,  to 
once  a  week ;  from  once  a  week  to  once  a  month  :  then,  at 
long  and  uncertain  intervals ;  then,  not  at  all.  Such  tokens 
seldom  flourish  long.  I  have  known  the  briefest  summer 
flowers  outlive  them.” 

“  I  grieve  to  hear  it,”  said  the  child. 

“  Ah  !  so  say  the  gentlefolks  who  come  down  here  to  look 
about  them,”  returned  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head,  “but  I 
say  otherwise.  ‘It’s  a  pretty  custom  you  have  in  this  part  of 
the  country,’  they  say  to  me  sometimes,  ‘  to  plant  the  graves, 
but  it’s  melancholy  to  see  these  things  all  withering  or  dead.’ 
I  crave  their  pardon  and  tell  them  that,  as  I  take  it,  ’tis  a  good 
sign  for  the  happiness  of  the  living.  And  so  it  is.  It’s  nature.” 

“  Perhaps  the  mourners  learn  to  look  to  the  blue  sky  by  day, 
and  to  the  stars  by  night,  and  to  think  that  the  dead  are  there, 
and  not  in  graves,”  said  the  child  in  an  earnest  voice. 

“  Perhaps  so,”  replied  the  old  man  doubtfully.  “  It  may 
be.” 


U  XT  ELL  here  ?”  he  said  cheerfully,  as  he  closed  his  book. 

L  N  “It  does  me  good  to  see  you  in  the  air  and  light.  I 
feared  you  were  again  in  the  church,  where  you  so  often  are.” 

“  Feared  !  ”  replied  the  child,  sitting  down  beside  him.  “  Is 
it  not  a  good  place  ?  ” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  schoolmaster.  “  But  you  must  be  gay 
sometimes — nay,  don’t  shake  your  head  and  smile  so  sadly.” 


2o8 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Not  sadly,  if  you  knew  my  heart.  Do  not  look  at  me  as  if 
you  thought  me  sorrowful.  There  is  not  a  happier  creature  on 
earth  than  I  am  now.” 

Full  of  grateful  tenderness,  the  child  took  his  hand,  and 
folded  it  between  her  own.  “  It’s  God’s  will !  ”  she  said,  when 
they  had  been  silent  for  some  time. 

“  What  ?  ” 

“  All  this,”  she  rejoined;  “  all  this  about  us.  But  which  of 
us  is  sad  now  ?  You  see  that  I  am  smiling.” 

“And  so  am  I,”  said  the  schoolmaster;  “smiling  to  think 
how  often  we  shall  laugh  in  this  same  place.  Were  you  not 
talking  yonder  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  the  child  rejoined. 

“Of  something  that  has  made  you  sorrowful?  ” 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

“  What  was  it  ?  ”  said  the  schoolmaster,  tenderly.  “  Come. 
Tell  me  what  it  was.” 

“  I  rather  grieve — I  do  rather  grieve  to  think,”  said  the  child, 
bursting  into  tears,  “  that  those  who  die  about  us  are  so  soon 
forgotten.” 

“And  do  you  think,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  marking  the 
glance  she  had  thrown  around,  “  that  an  unvisited  grave,  a 
withered  tree,  a  faded  flower  or  two,  are  tokens  of  forgetful¬ 
ness  or  cold  neglect  ?  Do  you  think  there  are  no  deeds,  far 
away  from  here,  in  which  these  dead  may  be  best  remembered  ? 
Nell,  Nell,  there  may  be  people  busy  in  the  world,  at  this  in¬ 
stant,  in  whose  good  actions  and  good  thoughts  these  very 
graves — neglected  as  they  look  to  us — are  the  chief  instru¬ 
ments.” 

“Tell  me  no  more,”  said  the  child  quickly.  “Tell  me  no 
more.  I  feel,  I  know  it.  How  could  I  be  unmindful  of  it, 
when  I  thought  of  you  ?  ” 

“  There  is  nothing,”  cried  her  friend,  “  no,  nothing  innocent 
or  good,  that  dies,  and  is  forgotten.  Let  us  hold  to  that  faith, 
or  none.  An  infant,  a  prattling  child,  dying  in  its  cradle,  will 
live  again  in  the  better  thoughts  of  those  who  loved  it,  and  will 


REFLECTIONS. 


209 


play  its  part,  through  them,  in  the  redeeming  actions  of  the 
world,  though  its  body  be  burnt  to  ashes  or  drowned  in  the 
deepest  sea.  There  is  not  an  angel  added  to  the  Host  of 
Heaven  but  does  its  blessed  work  on  earth  in  those  that  loved 
it  here.  Forgotten  !  oh,  if  the  good  deeds  of  human  creatures 
could  be  traced  to  their  source,  how  beautiful  would  even 
death  appear ;  for  how  much  charity,  mercy,  and  purified 
affection  would  be  seen  to  have  their  growth  in  dusty  graves  !  ” 
“Yes,”  said  the  child,  “it  is  the  truth  :  I  know  it  is.  Who 
should  feel  its  force  so  much  as  I,  in  whom  your  little  scholar 
lives  again !  ” 


FROM  PICKWICK  PAPERS 


HERE  are  very  few  moments  in  a  man’s  existence  when 


JL  he  experiences  so  much  ludicrous  distress,  or  meets  with 
so  little  charitable  commiseration,  as  when  he  is  in  pursuit  of 
his  own  hat.  A  vast  deal  of  coolness,  and  a  peculiar  degree  of 
judgment,  are- requisite  in  catching  a  hat.  A  man  must  not  be 
precipitate,  or  he  runs  over  it ;  he  must  not  rush  into  the  op¬ 
posite  extreme,  or  he  loses  it  altogether.  The  best  way  is,  to 
keep  gently  up  with  the  object  of  pursuit,  to  be  wary  and  cau¬ 
tious,  to  watch  your  opportunity  well,  get  gradually  before  it, 
then  make  a  rapid  dive,  seize  it  by  the  crown,  and  stick  it 
firmly  on  your  head  :  smiling  pleasantly  all  the  time,  as  if  you 
thought  it  as  good  a  joke  a,s  anybody  else. 

NUMEROUS  indeed  are  the  hearts  to  which  Christmas 
brings  a  brief  season  of  happiness  and  enjoyment. 
How  many  families,  whose  members  have  been  dispersed  and 
scattered  far  and  wide,  in  the  restless  struggles  of  life,  are  then 
reunited,  and  meet  once  again  in  that  happy  state  of  compan- 


210 


BE  A  UTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ionship  and  mutual  good-will,  which  is  a  source  of  such  pure 
and  unalloyed  delight,  and  one  so  incompatible  with  the  cares 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  that  the  religious  belief  of  the  most 
civilized  nations,  and  the  rude  traditions  of  the  roughest  sava¬ 
ges,  alike  number  it  among  the  first  joys  of  a  future  condition 
of  existence,  provided  for  the  blest  and  happy !  How  many 
old  recollections,  and  how  many  dormant  sympathies,  does 
Christmas-time  awaken  ! 

We  write  these  words  now,  many  miles  distant  from  the  spot 
at  which,  year  after  year,  we  met  on  that  day,  a  merry  and 
joyous  circle.  Many  of  the  hearts  that  throbbed  so  gayly  then 
have  ceased  to  beat ;  many  of  the  looks  that  shone  so  brightly 
then  have  ceased  to  glow  ;  the  hands  we  grasped  have  grown 
cold ;  the  eyes  we  sought  have  hid  their  lustre  in  the  grave ; 
and  yet  the  old  house,  the  room,  the  merry  voices  and  smiling 
faces,  the  jest,  the  laugh,  the  most  minute  and  trivial  circum¬ 
stances  connected  with  those  happy  meetings,  crowd  upon  our 
mind  at  each  recurrence  of  the  season,  as  if  the  last  assemblage 
had  been  but  yesterday!  Happy,  happy  Christmas,  that 'can 
win  us  back  to  the  delusions  of  our  childish  days  ;  that  can  re¬ 
call  to  the  old  man  the  pleasures  of  his  youth ;  that  can  trans¬ 
port  the  sailor  and  the  traveller,  thousands  of  miles  away,  back 
to  his  own  fireside  and  his  quiet  home  ! 

IT  is  not  half  as  innocent  a  thing  as  it  looks,  that  shaking 
little  pieces  of  carpet — at  least,  there  may  be  no  great 
harm  in  the  shaking,  but  the  folding  is  a  very  insidious  process. 
So  long  as  the  shaking  lasts,  and  the  two  parties  are  kept  the 
carpet’s  length  apart,  it  is  as  innocent  an  amusement  as  can 
well  be  devised ;  but  when  the  folding  begins,  and  the  distance 
between  them  gets  gradually  lessened  from  one-half  its  former 
length  to  a  quarter,  and  then  to  an  eighth,  and  then  to  a  six¬ 
teenth,  and  then  to  a  thirty-second,  if  the  carpet  be  long  enough, 
it  becomes  dangerous.  We  do  not  know,  to  a  nicety,  how 
many  pieces  of  carpet  were  folded  in  this  instance,  but  we  can 


REFLECTIONS. 


211 


venture  to  state  that  as  many  pieces  as  there  were,  so  many 
times  did  Sam  kiss  the  pretty  housemaid. 


WHETHER  that  species  of  benevolence  which  is  so 
very  cautious  and  long-sighted  that  it  is  seldom  exer¬ 
cised  at  all,  lest  its  owner  should  be  imposed  upon,  and  so 
wounded  in  his  self-love,  be  real  charity  or  a  worldly  counter¬ 
feit,  I  leave  to  wiser  heads  than  mine  to  determine. 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

IT  is  an  exquisite  and  beautiful  thing  in  our  nature,  that 
when  the  heart  is  touched  and  softened  by  some  tranquil 
happiness  or  affectionate  feeling,  the  memory  of  the  dead  comes 
over  it  most  powerfully  and  irresistibly.  It  would  almost  seem 
as  though  our  better  thoughts  and  sympathies  were  charms,  in 
virtue  of  which  the  soul  is  enabled  to  hold  some  vague  and 
mysterious  intercourse  with  the  spirits  of  those  whom  we  dearly 
loved  in  life.  Alas  !  how  often  and  how  long  may  those  patient 
angels  hover  above  us,  watching  for  the  spell  which  is  so  seldom 
uttered,  and  so  soon  forgotten  ! 

THERE  are  some  men  who,  living  with  the  one  object  of 
enriching  themselves,  no  matter  by  what  means,  and  be- 
ing  perfectly  conscious  of  the  baseness  and  rascality  of  the 
means  which  they  will  use  every  day  towards  this  end,  affect 
nevertheless — even  to  themselves — a  high  tone  of  moral  recti¬ 
tude,  and  shake  their  heads  and  sigh  over  the  depravity  of  the 
world.  Some  of  the  craftiest  scoundrels  that  ever  walked  this 
earth,  or  rather — for  walking  implies,  at  least,  an  erect  position 
and  the  bearing  of  a  man — that  ever  crawled  and  crept  through 


212 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


life  by  its  dirtiest  and  narrowest  ways,  will  gravely  jot  down 
in  diaries  the  events  of  every  day,  and  keep  a  regular  debtor 
and  creditor  account  with  Heaven,  which  shall  always  show  a 
floating  balance  in  their  own  favor.  Whether  this  is  a  gratuit¬ 
ous  (the  only  gratuitous)  part  of  the  falsehood  and  trickery  of 
such  men’s  lives,  or  whether  they  really  hope  to  cheat  Heaven 
itself,  and  lay  up  treasure  in  the  next  world  by  the  same  pro¬ 
cess  which  has  enabled  them  to  lay  up  treasure  in  this — not  to 
question  how  it  is,  so  it  is.  And,  doubtless,  such  book-keeping 
(like  certain  autobiographies  which  have  enlightened  the  world) 
cannot  fail  to  prove  serviceable,  in  the  one  respect  of  sparing 
the  recording  angel  some  time  and  labor. 


PARENTS  who  never  showed  their  love,  complain  of  want 
of  natural  affection  in  their  children  ;  children  who  never 
showed  their  duty,  complain  of  want  of  natural  feeling  in  their 
parents ;  law-makers  who  find  both  so  miserable  that  their  af¬ 
fections  have  never  had  enough  of  life’s  sun  to  develop  them, 
are  loud  in  their  moralizings  over  parents  and  children  too,  and 
cry  that  the  very  ties  of  Nature'  are  disregarded.  Natural  affec¬ 
tions  and  instincts,  my  dear  sir,  are  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
Almighty’s  works,  but  like  other  beautiful  works  of  His,  they 
must  be  reared  and  fostered,  or  it  is  as  natural  that  they  should 
be  wholly  obscured,  and  that  new  feelings  should  usurp  their 
place,  as  it  is  that  the  sweetest  productions  of  the  earth,  left 
untended,  should  be  choked  with  weeds  and  briars.  I  wish  we 
could  be  brought  to  consider  this,  and  remembering  natural  ob¬ 
ligations  a  little  more  at  the  right  time,  talk  about  them  a  little 
less  at  the  wrong  one. 


THERE  is  a  dread  disease  which  so  prepares  its  victim,  as 
it  were,  for  death ;  which  so  refines  it  of  its  grosser  as¬ 
pect,  and  throws  around  familiar  looks  unearthly  indications  of 
the  coming  change  ;  a  dread  disease,  in  which  the  struggle  be- 


REFLECTIONS. 


213 


tween  soul  and  body  is  so  gradual,  quiet,  and  solemn,  and  the 
result  so  sure,  that  day  by  day,  and  grain  by  grain,  the  mortal 
part  wastes  and  withers  away,  so  that  the  spirit  grows  light  and 
sanguine  with  its  lightening  load,  and  feeling  immortality  at 
hand,  deems  it  but  a  new.  term  of  mortal  life ;  a  disease  in 
which  death  and  life  are  so  strangely  blended,  that  death  takes 
the  glow  and  hue  of  life,  and  life  the  gaunt  and  grizzly  form  of 
death ;  a  disease  which  medicine  never  cured,  wealth  never 
warded  off,  or  poverty  could  boast  exemption  from ;  which 
sometimes  moves  in  giant  strides,  and  sometimes  at  a  tardy, 
sluggish  pace,  but,  slow  or  quick,  is  ever  sure  and  certain. 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


Y  father’s  eyes  had  closed  upon  the  light  of  this  world 


IV A  six  months,  when  mine  opened  on  it.  There  is 
something  strange  to  me,  even  now,  in  the  reflection  that  he 
never  saw  me  ;  and  something  stranger  yet  in  the  shadowy 
remembrance  that  I  have  of  my  first  childish  associations  with 
his  white  gravestone  in  the  churchyard,  and  of  the  indefinable 
compassion  I  used  to  feel  for  it  lying  out  alone  there  in  the 
dark  night,  when  our  little  parlor  was  warm  and  bright  with 
fire  and  candle,  and  the  doors  of  our  house  were — almost 
cruelly,  it  seemed  to  me  sometimes — bolted  and  locked  against 


it. 


THERE  is  nothing  half  so  green  that  I  know  anywhere,  as 
the  grass  of  that  churchyard ;  nothing  half  so  shady  as 
its  trees  ;  nothing  half  so  quiet  as  its  tombstones.  The  sheep 
are  feeding  there,  when  I  kneel  up,  early  in  the  morning,  in 
my  little  bed  in  a  closet  within  my  mother’s  room,  to  look  out 
at  it ;  and  I  see  the  red  light  shining  on  the  sun-dial,  and 


214 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


think  within  myself,  “  Is  the  sun-dial  glad,  I  wonder,  that  it  can 
tell  the  time  again?” 

OF  course  I  was  in  love  with  little  Em’ly.  I  am  sure  I 
loved  that  baby  quite  as  truly,  quite  as  tenderly,  with 
greater  purity  and  more  disinterestedness,  than  can  enter  into 
the  best  love  of  a  later  time  of  life,  high  and  ennobling  as  it 
is.  I  am  sure  my  fancy  raised  up  something  round  that  blue¬ 
eyed  mite  of  a  child,  which  etherealized,  and  made  a  very 
angel  of  her.  If,  any  sunny  forenoon,  she  had  spread  a  little 
pair  of  wings,  and  flown  away  before  my  eyes,  I  don’t  think  I 
should  have  regarded  it  as  much  more  than  I  had  had  reason  to 
expect. 

GOD  knows  how  infantine  the  memory  may  have  been, 
that  was  awakened  within  me  by  the  sound  of  my 
mother’s  voice  in  the  old  parlor,  when  I  set  foot  in  the  hall. 
She  was  singing  in  a  low  tone.  I  think  I  must  have  lain  in  her 
arms,  and  heard  her  singing  so  to  me  when  I  was  but  a  baby. 
The  strain  was  new  to  me,  and  yet  it  was  so  old  that  it  filled 
my  heart  brimful;  like  a  friend  come  back  from  a  long  ab¬ 
sence. 


HEN  we  had  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  stars,  or 


rather  when  I  had  exhausted  the  mental  faculties  of 


Mr.  Barkis,  little  Em’ly  and  I  made  a  cloak  of  an  old  wrapper, 
and  sat  under  it  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  Ah,  how  I  loved 
her  !  What  happiness  (I  thought)  if  we  were  married,  and 
were  going  away  anywhere  to  live  among  the  trees  and  in  the 
fields,  never  growing  older,  never  growing  wiser,  children  ever, 
rambling  hand  in  hand  through  sunshine  and  among  flowery 
meadows,  laying  down  our  heads  on  moss  at  night,  in  a  sweet 
sleep  of  purity  and  peace,  and  buried  by  the  birds  when  we 


REFLECTIONS. 


215 


were  dead  !  Some  such  picture,  with  no  real  world  in  it,  bright 
with  the  light  of  our  innocence,  and  vague  as  the  stars  afar  off, 
was  in  my  mind  all  the  way.  I  am  glad  to  think  there  were 
two  such  guileless  hearts  at  Peggotty’s  marriage  as  little 
Em’ly’s  and  mine.  I  am  glad  to  think  the  Loves  and  Graces 
took  such  airy  forms  in  its  homely  procession. 

uT"^vEAREST  husband!”  said  Agnes.  “  Now  that  I  may 

Ji_y  call  you  by  that  name,  I  have  one  thing  more  to  tell 
you.” 

“Let  me  hear  it,  love.” 

“  It  grows  out  of  the  night  when  Dora  died.  She  sent  you 
for  me.” 

“  She  did.” 

“  She  told  me  that  she  left  me  something.  Can  you  think 
what  it  was  ?  ” 

I  believed  I  could.  I  drew  the  wife  who  had  so  long  loved 
me,  closer  to  my  side. 

“  She  told  me  that  she  made  a  last  request  to  me,  and  left 
me  a  last  charge.” 

“  And  it  was — ” 

“  That  only  I  would  occupy  this  vacant  place.” 

And  Agnes  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast  and  wept ;  and 
I  wept  with  her,  though  we  were  so  happy. 

AND  now,  as  I  close  my  task,  subduing  my  desire  to  linger 
yet,  these  faces  fade  awa}^.  But  one  face,  shining  on 
me  like  a  heavenly  light  by  which  I  see  all  other  objects,  is 
above  them  and  beyond  them  all.  And  that  remains. 

I  turn  my  head,  and  see  it,  in  its  beautiful  serenity,  beside 
me.  My  lamp  burns  low,  and  I  have  written  far  into  the 
night  ;  but  the  dear  presence,  without  which  I  were  nothing, 
bears  me  company. 

Oh  Agnes,  oh  my  soul,  so  may  thy  face  be  by  me  when  I 


2l6 


BE  A  UTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


close  my  life  indeed  :  so  may  I,  when  realities  are  melting  from 
me  like  the  shadows  which  I  now  dismiss,  still  find  thee  near 
me,  pointing  upwards ! 


FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


LAS  !  are  there  so  few  things  in  the  world,  about  us,  most 


£~\.  unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so  !  Hear  the 
magistrate  or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural  outcasts  of  society  ; 
unnatural  in  brutal  habits,  unnatural  in  want  of  decency,  un¬ 
natural  in  losing  and  confounding  all  distinctions  between  good 
and  evil ;  unnatural  in  ignorance,  in  vice,  in  recklessness,  in 
contumacy,  in  mind,  in  looks,  in  everything.  But  follow  the 
good  clergyman,  or  doctor,  who,  with  his  life  imperilled  at 
every  breath  he  draws,  goes  down  into  their  dens,  lying  within 
the  echoes  of  our  carriage- wheels  and  daily  tread  upon  the 
pavement  stones.  Look  round  upon  the  world  of  odious 
sights — millions  of  immortal  creatures  have  no  other  world  on 
earth — at  the  lightest  mention  of  which  humanity  revolts,  and 
dainty  delicacy  living  in  the  next  street,  stops  her  ears,  and 
lisps  “  I  don’t  believe  it  !”  Breathe  the  polluted  air,  foul  with 
every  impurity  that  is  poisonous  to  health  and  life  ;  and  have 
every  sense,  conferred  upon  our  race  for  its  delight  and  happi¬ 
ness,  offended,  sickened,  and  disgusted,  and  made  a  channel 
by  which  misery  and  death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt 
to  think  of  any  simple  plant,  or  flower,  or  wholesome  weed, 
that,  set  in  this  foetid  bed,  could  have  its  natural  growth,  or  put 
its  little  leaves  off  to  the  sun  as  God  designed  it.  And  then, 
calling  up  some  ghastly  child,  with  stunted  form  and  wicked 
face,  hold  forth  on  its  unnatural  sinfulness  and  lament  its  being, 
so  early,  far  away  from  Heaven— but  think  a  little  of  its  having 
been  conceived,  and  born  and  bred,  in  Hell  ! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  bring  them  to 


REFLECTIONS. 


217 


bear  upon  the  health  of  Man,  tell  us  that  if  the  noxious  parti¬ 
cles  that  rise  from  vitiated  air  were  palpable  to  the  sight,  we 
should  see  them  lowering  in  a  dense  black  cloud  above  such 
haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on  to  corrupt  the  better  portions  of  a 
town.  But  if  the  moral  pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and  in 
the  eternal  laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from  them, 
could  be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible  the  revelation ! 
Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety,  drunkenness,  theft,  mur¬ 
der,  and  a  long  train  of  nameless  sins  against  the  natural  affec¬ 
tions  and  repulsions  of  mankind,  overhanging  the  devoted  spots 
and  creeping  on,  to  blight  the  innocent  and  spread  contagion 
among  the  pure.  Then  should  we  see  how  the  same  poisoned 
fountains  that  flow  into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-houses,  inun¬ 
date  the  jails,  and  make  the  convict-ships  swim  deep,  and  roll 
across  the  seas,  and  overrun  vast  continents  with  crime. 
Then  should  we  stand  appalled  to  know,  that  where  we  gener¬ 
ate  -disease  to  strike  our  children  down  and  entail  itself  on  un¬ 
born  generations,  there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same  certain  pro¬ 
cess,  infancy  that  knows  no  innocence,  youth  without  modesty 
or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in  nothing  but  in  suffering 
and  guilt,  blasted  old  age  that  is  a  scandal  on  the  form  we  bear. 
Unnatural  humanity !  When  we  shall  gather  grapes  from 
thorns,  and  figs  from  thistles ;  when  fields  of  grain  shall  spring 
up  from  the  offal  in  the  by-ways  of  our  wicked  cities,  and 
roses  bloom  in  the  fat  churchyards  that  they  cherish  ;  then  we 
may  look  for  natural  humanity  and  find  it  growing  from  such 
seed. 

Oh  for  a  good  spirit  who  would  take  the  house-tops  off,  with 
a  more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the  lame  demon  in  the 
tale,  and  show  a  Christian  people  what  dark  shapes  issue  from 
amidst  their  homes,  to  swell  the  retinue  of  the  Destroying 
Angel  as  he  moves  forth  among  them  !  For  only  one  night’s 
view  of  the  pale  phantoms  rising  from  the  scenes  of  our  too- 
long  neglect  :  and  from  the  thick  and  sullen  air  where  Vice  and 
Fever  propagate  together,  raining  the  tremendous  social  retri¬ 
butions  which  are  ever  pouring  down,  and  ever  coming  thicker  j 
10 


2l8 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Bright  and  blest  the  morning  that  should  rise  on  such  a  night : 
for  men,  delayed  no  more  by  stumbling-blocks  of  their  own 
making,  which  are  but  specks  of  dust  upon  the  path  between 
them  and  eternity,  would  then  apply  themselves,  like  creatures 
of  one  common  origin,  owing  one  duty  to  the  Father  of  one 
family,  and  tending  to  one  common  end,  to  make  the  world  a 
better  place  ! 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 

44  X  T  THAT  does  this  mean  ?  Can  tire  false-hearted  boy  have 
V  V  chosen  such  a  tool  as  yonder  fellow  who  has  just  gone 
out  ?  Why  not  ?  He  has  conspired  against  me,  like  the  rest, 
and  they  are  but  birds  of  one  feather.  A  new  plot!  a  new 
plot !  Oh,  self,  self,  self !  At  every  turn  nothing  but  self !  ” 

He  fell  to  trifling,  as  he  ceased  to  speak,  with  the  ashes  of 
the  burnt  paper  in  the  candlestick.  He  did  so,  at  first,  in  pure 
abstraction,  but  they  presently  became  the  subject  of  his 
thoughts. 

‘‘Another  will  made  and  destroyed,”  he  said.  “  Nothing  de¬ 
termined  on,  nothing  done,  and  I  might  have  died  to-night !  I 
plainly  see  to  what  foul  uses  all  this  money  will  be  put  at  last,” 
he  cried,  almost  writhing  in  the  bed ;  “  after  filling  me  with 
cares  and  miseries  all  my  life,  it  will  perpetuate  discord  and  bad 
passions  when  I  am  dead.  So  it  always  is.  What  lawsuits 
grow  out  of  the  graves  of  rich  men  every  day ;  sowing  perjury, 
hatred,  and  lies  among  near  kindred,  where  there  should  be 
nothing  but  love  !  Heaven  help  us,  we  have  much  to  answer 
for  !  Oh,  self,  self,  self !  Every  man  for  himself,  and  no 
creature  for  me  !  ” 

Universal  self!  Was  there  nothing  of  its  shadow  in  these 
reflections,  and  in  the  history  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  on  his  own 
showing  ? 


REFLECTIONS. 


219 


UTT  7HY,  wot  do  you  mean  to  say  that  chit’s  been  a-doin’ 
VV  of  ?”  retorted  Mrs.  Gamp,  sharply.  “Stuff  and 
nonsense,  Mr.  Sweedlepipes  !  ” 

“He  hasn’t  been  a-doin’  anything!”  exclaimed  Poor  Poll, 
quite  desperate.  “What  do  you  catch  me  up  so  short  for, 
when  you  see  me  put  out  to  that  extent  that  I  can  hardly 
speak  ?  He’ll  never  do  anything  again.  He’s  done  for.  He’s 
killed.  The  first  time  I  ever  see  that  boy,”  said  Poll,  “  I 
charged  him  too  much  for  a  red-poll.  I  asked  him  three-half¬ 
pence  for  a  penny  one,  because  I  was  afraid  he’d  beat  me 
down.  But  he  didn’t.  And  now  he’s  dead;  and  if  you  was  to 
crowd  all  the  steam-engines  and  electric  fluids  that  ever  was 
into  this  shop,  and  set  ’em  every  one  to  work  their  hardest, 
they  couldn’t  square  the  account,  though  it’s  only  a  ha’penny.” 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT  AND  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

r  TMIAT  it  is  at  least  as  difficult  to  stay  a  moral  infection  as 
X  a  physical  one  ;  that  such  a  disease  will  spread  with  the 
malignity  and  rapidity  of  the  plague ;  that  the  contagion,  when 
it  has  once  made  head,  will  spare  no  pursuit  or  condition,  but 
will  lay  hold  on  people  in  the  soundest  health,  and  become  de¬ 
veloped  in  the  most  unlikely  constitutions,  is  a  fact  as  firmly 
established  by  experience  as  that  we  human  creatures  breathe 
an  atmosphere.  A  blessing  beyond  appreciation  would  be  con¬ 
ferred  upon  mankind,  if  the  tainted,  in  whose  weakness  or 
wickedness  these  virulent  disorders  are  bred,  could  be  instantly 
seized  and  placed  in  close  confinement  (not  to  say  summarily 
smothered)  before  the  poison  is  communicable. 

I  THINK  it  must  be  somewhere  written  that  the  virtues  of  the 
mothers  shall  occasionally  be  visited  on  the  children,  as 
well  as  the  sins  of  the  fathers. 


220 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


T_T  0WS0EVER  bad  the  devil  can  be  in  fustian  or  smock- 
I  1  frock  (and  he  can  be  very  bad  in  both),  he  is  a  more  de- 
signing,  callous,  and  intolerable  devil  when  he  sticks  a  pin  in 
his  shirt-front,  calls  himself  a  gentleman,  backs  a  card  or  color, 
plays  a  game  or  so  of  billiards,  and  knows  a  little  about  bills 
and  promissory  notes,  than  in  any  other  form  he  wears. 


CARICATURES. 


221 


CARICATURES. 

- o - 

CHAPTER  VI. 

FROM  OLIVER  TWIST. 

**  T  HOPE  you  say  your  prayers  every  night,”  said  another 

X  gentleman,  in  a  gruff  voice  ;  “  and  pray  for  the  people 
who  feed  you,  and  take  care  of  you — like  a  Christian.” 

“Yes,  sir,”  stammered  the  boy.  The  gentleman  who  spoke 
last  was  unconsciously  right.  It  would  have  been  very  like  a 
Christian,  and  a  marvellously  good  Christian  too,  if  Oliver  had 
prayed  for  the  people  who  fed  and  took  care  of  him.  But  he 
hadn’t,  because  nobody  had  taught  him. 

“Well !  You  have  come  here  to  be  educated,  and  taught  a 
useful  trade,”  said  the  red-faced  gentleman  in  the  high  chair. 

“  So  you’ll  begin  to  pick  oakum  to-morrow  morning  at  six 
o’clock,”  added  the  surly  one  in  the  white  waistcoat. 

For  the  combination  of  both  these  blessings  in  the  one  sim¬ 
ple  process  of  picking  oakum,  Oliver  bowed  low  by  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  beadle,  and  was  then  hurried  away  to  a  large  ward, 
where  on  a  rough,  hard  bed,  he  sobbed  himself  to  sleep.  What 
a  noble  illustration  of  the  tender  laws  of  England !  They  let 
the  paupers  go  to  sleep  ! 

OLIVER  was  denied  the  benefit  of  exercise,  the  pleasure 
of  society,  or  the  advantages  of  religious  consolation. 
As  for  exercise,  it  was  nice  cold  weather,  and  he  was  allowed 
to  perform  his  ablutions  every  morning  under  the  pump,  in  a 


222 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


stone  yard,  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Bumble,  who  prevented  his 
catching  cold,  and  caused  a  tingling  sensation  to  pervade  his 
frame,  by  repeated  applications  of  the  cane.  As  for  society, 
he  was  carried  every  other  day  into  the  hall,  where  the  boys 
dined,  and  there  sociably  flogged  as  a  public  warning  and  ex¬ 
ample.  And  so  far  from  being  denied  the  advantages  of  reli¬ 
gious  consolation,  he  was  kicked  into  the  same  apartment  every 
evening  at  prayer-time,  and  there  permitted  to  listen  to,  and 
console  his  mind  with,  a  general  supplication  of  the  boys,  con¬ 
taining  a  special  clause,  therein  inserted  by  authority  of  the 
board,  in  which  they  intreated  to  be  made  good,  virtuous,  con¬ 
tented,  and  -obedient,  and  to  be  guarded  from  the  sins  and 
vices  of  Oliver  Twist :  whom  the  supplication  distinctly  set 
forth  to  be  under  the  exclusive  patronage  and  protection  of  the 
powers  of  wickedness,  and  an  article  direct  from  the  manufac¬ 
tory  of  the  very  devil  himself. 

AS  Oliver  accompanied  his  master  in  most  of  his  adult  ex¬ 
peditions,  too,  in  order  that  he  might  acquire  the  equani¬ 
mity  of  demeanor  and  full  command  of  nerve  which  are  so  es¬ 
sential  to  a  finished  undertaker,  he  had' many  opportunities  of 
observing  the  beautiful  resignation*  and  fortitude  with  which 
some  strong-minded  people  bear  their  trials  and  losses. 

For  instance  :  when  Sowerberry  had  an  order  for  the  burial 
of  some  rich  old  lady  or  gentleman,  who  was  surrounded  by  a 
great  number  of  nephews  and  nieces,  who  had  been  perfectly 
inconsolable  during  the  previous  illness,  and  whose  grief  had 
been  wholly  irrepressible  even  on  the  most  public  occasions, 
they  would  be  as  happy  among  themselves  as  need  be — quite 
cheerful  and  contented  :  conversing  together  with  as  much  free¬ 
dom  and  gayety  as  if  nothing  whatever  had  happened  to  dis¬ 
turb  them.  Husbands,  too,  bore  the  loss  of  their  wives  with 
the  most  heroic  calmness.  Wives,  again,  put  on  weeds  for 
their  husbands,  as  if,  so  far  from  grieving  in  the  garb  of  sorrow, 
they  had  made  up  their  minds  to  render  it  as  becoming  and 


C A  RICA  TURES. 


223 


attractive  as  possible.  It  was  observable,  too,  that  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  were  in  passions  of  anguish  during  the  cere¬ 
mony  of  interment,  recovered  almost  as  soon  as  they  reached 
home,  and  became  quite  composed  before  the  tea-drinking  was 
over.  All  this  was  very  pleasant  and  improving  to  see ;  and 
Oliver  beheld  it  with  great  admiration. 


r  1  ''HERE  was  not  so  great  a  necessity  for  hurrying  as  Mr. 

Jb  Sowerberry  had  anticipated,  however ;  for  when  they 
reached  the  obscure  corner  of  the  churchyard  in  which  the  net¬ 
tles  grew,  and  where  the  parish  graves  were  made,  the  clergy¬ 
man  had  not  arrived  ;  and  the  clerk,  who  was  sitting  by  the 
vestry-room  fire,  seemed  to  think  it  by  no  means  improbable 
that  it  might  be  an  hour  or  so  before  he  came.  So  they  put 
the  bier  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  ;  and  the  two  mourners 
waited  patiently  in  the  damp  clay,  with  a  cold  rain  drizzling 
down,  while  the  ragged  boys,  whom  the  spectacle  had  attracted 
into  the  churchyard,  played  a  noisy  game  at  hide-and-seek 
among  the  tombstones ;  or  varied  their  amusements  by  jump¬ 
ing  backward  and  forward  over  the  coffin.  Mr.  Sowerberry 
and  Bumble,  being  personal  friends  of  the  clerk,  sat  by  the  fire 
with  him,  and  read  the  paper. 

At  length,  after  a  lapse  of  something  more  than  an  hour,  Mr. 
Bumble,  and  Sowerberry,  and  the  clerk,  were  seen  running  to¬ 
ward  the  grave.  Immediately  afterwards  the  clergyman  ap¬ 
peared,  putting  on  his  surplice  as  he  came  along.  Mr.  Bum¬ 
ble  then  thrashed  a  boy  or  two,  to  keep  up  appearances  ;  and 
the  reverend  gentleman,  having  read  as  much  of  the  burial- 
service  as  could  be  compressed  into  four  minutes,  gave  his  sur¬ 
plice  to  the  clerk,  and  walked  away  again. 

“Now,  Bill!”  said  Sowerberry  to  the  grave-digger,  “fill 
up  !  ” 

It  was  no  very  difficult  task  ;  for  the  grave  was  so  full,  that 
the  uppermost  coffin  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the  surface.  The 
grave-digger  shovelled  in  the  earth ;  stamped  it  loosely  down 


224 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


with  his  feet,  shouldered  his  spade  and  walked  off,  followed  by 
the  boys,  who  murmured  very  loud  complaints  at  the  fun  be¬ 
ing  over  so  soon. 

^£^PEAK  to  her  kindly,”  said  the  young  lady  to  her  com- 
panion.  “  Poor  creature,  she  seems  to  need  it.” 

“  Your  haughty  religious  people  would  have  held  their  heads 
up  to  see  me  as  I  am  to-night,  and  preached  of  flames  and  ven¬ 
geance,”  cried  the  girl.  “Oh,  dear  lady,  why  ar’n’t  those  who 
claim  to  be  God’s  own  folks  as  gentle  and  as  kind  to  us  poor 
wretches  as  you,  who,  having  youth,  and  beauty,  and  all  that 
they  have  lost,  might  be  a  little  proud  instead  of  so  much  hum¬ 


bler  ?  ” 


“Ah  !”  said  the  gentleman.  “A  Turk  turns  his  face,  after 
washing  it  well,  to  the  East,  when  he  says  his  prayers ;  these 
good  people,  after  giving  their  faces  such  a  rub  against  the 
World  as  to  take  the  smiles  off,  turn  with  no  less  regularity,  to 
the  darkest  side  of  Heaven.  Between  the  Mussulman  and  the 
Pharisee,  commend  me  to  the  first !  ” 


FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


OZER,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by  a 


starched  white  cambric  neckerchief,  which  he  wore  at 
the  express  desire  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who,  designing 
him  for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he  couldn’t  be  in  that 
forward  state  of  preparation  too  soon — Tozer  said,  indeed,  that 
choosing  between  two  evils,  he  thought  he  would  rather  stay 
where  he  was,  than  go  home. 

AND  now,  the  mice,  who  have  been  busier  with  the  prayer- 
books  than  their  proper  owners,  and  with  the  hassocks, 
more  worn  by  their  little  teeth  than  by  human  knees,  hide  their 


C A  RICA  TURKS. 


225 


bright  eyes  in  their  holes,  and  gather  close  together  in  affright 
at  the  resounding  clashing  of  the  church-door.  For  the  beadle, 
that  man  of  power,'  comes  early  this  morning  with  the  sexton  ; 
and  Mrs.  Miff,  the  wheezy  little  pew-opener — a  mighty  dry  old 
lady,  sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fulness  anywhere 
about  her — is  also  here,  and  has  been  waiting  at  the  church- 
gate  half  an  hour,  as  her  place  is,  for  the  beadle. 

66  T  EERY  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea,  and  far 
V  away  even  then.  I  have  been  where  convicts  go,”  she 
added,  looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  “  I  have  been  one 
myself.” 

“  Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you !  ”  was  the  gentle  an¬ 
swer. 

“  Ah !  Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me  !  ”  she  returned, 
nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  “  If  man  would  help  some  of 
us  a  little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all  the  sooner  perhaps.” 

«r 

66  ^  f  "‘HERE  was  a  criminal  called  Alice  Marwood — a  girl 
_L  still,  but  deserted  and  an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried, 
and  she  was  sentenced.  And  lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the 
court  talked  about  it  !  and  how  grave  the  judge  was  011  her 
duty,  and  on  her  having  perverted  the  gifts  of  Nature — as  if  he 
didn’t  know  better  than  anybody  there,  that  they  had  been 
made  curses  to  her  ! — and  how  he  preached  about  the  strong 
arm  of  the  Law — so  very  strong  to  save  her,  when  she  was  an 
innocent  and  helpless  little  wretch  ;  and  how  solemn  and  reli¬ 
gious  it  all  was.  I  have  thought  of  that,  many  times  since,  to 
be  sure !  ” 

1  She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and  laughed  in  a 
tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman  musical. 

“  So  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,”  she  pursued, 
“and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there  was  twenty  times 
less  duty,  and  more  wickedness,  and  wrong,  and  infamy,  than 
here.  And  Alice  Marwood  is  come  back  a  woman.  Such  a 
10* 


226 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


woman  as  she  ought  to  be,  after  all  this.  In  good  time,  there 
will  be  more  solemnity,  and  more  fine  talk,  and  more  strong 
arm,  most  likely,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  her  ;  but  the 
gentlemen  needn’t  be  afraid  of  being  thrown  out  of  work. 
There’s  crowds  of  little  wretches,  boy  and  girl,  growing  up  in 
any  of  the  streets  they  live  in,  that’ll  keep  them  to  it  till  they’ve 
made  their  fortunes.” 

'HP' HE  church  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose,  was  a 
JL  mouldy  old  church  in  a  yard,  hemmed  in  by  a  labyrinth 
of  back  streets  and  courts,  with  a  little  burying-ground  round 
it,  and  itself  buried  in  a  kind  of  vault,  formed  by  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  houses,  and  paved  with  echoing  stones.  It  was  a  great 
dim,  shabby  pile,  with  high  old  oaken  pews,  among  which 
about  a  score  of  people  lost  themselves  every  Sunday ;  while 
the  clergyman’s  voice  drowsily  resounded  through  the  empti¬ 
ness,  and  the  organ  rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church  had 
got  the  colic,  for  want  of  a  congregation  to  keep  the  wind  and 
damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  city  church  from  languishing  for 
the  company  of  other  churches,  that  spires  were  clustered  round 
it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  cluster  on  the  river.  It  would 
have  been  hard  to  count  them  from  its  steeple-top,  they  were 
so  many.  In  almost  every  yard  and  blind-place  near,  there  was 
a  church.  The  confusion  of  bells  when  Susan  and  Mr.  Toots 
betook  themselves  towards  it  on  the  Sunday  morning,  was 
deafening.  There  were  twenty  churches  close  together,  clam¬ 
oring  for  people  to  come  in. 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE. 

NOW,  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Varden  thought,  here  is  a  perfect 
character.  Here  is  a  meek,  righteous,  thoroughgoing 
Christian,  who,  having  mastered  all  these  qualities,  so  difficult 


C A  RICA  TURES. 


227 


of  attainment ;  who,  having  dropped  a  pinch  of  salt  on  the  tails 
of  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  and  caught  them  every  one,  makes 
light  of  their  possession,  and  pants  for  more  morality.  For  the 
good  woman  never  doubted  (as  many  good  men  and  women 
never  do),  that  this  slighting  kind  of  profession,  this  setting  so 
little  store  by  great  matters,  this  seeming  to  say  “  I  am  not 
proud,  I  am  what  you  hear,  but  I  consider  myself  no  better 
than  other  people  ;  let  us  change  the  subject,  pray  ” — were  per¬ 
fectly  genuine  and  true.  He  so  contrived  it,  and  said  it  in  that 
way  that  it  appeared  to  have  been  forced  from  him,  and  its 
effect  was  marvellous. 

Aware  of  the  impression  he  had  made — few  men  were  quicker 
than  he  at  such  discoveries — Mr.  Chester  followed  up  the  blow, 
by  propounding  certain  virtuous  maxims,  somewhat  vague  and 
general  in  their  nature,  doubtless,  and  occasionally  partaking 
of  the  character  of  truisms,  worn  a  little  out  at  elbow,  but  de¬ 
livered  in  so  charming  a  voice,  and  with  such  uncommon  seren¬ 
ity  and  peace  of  mind,  that  they  answered  as  well  as  the  best. 
Nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at ;  for  as  hollow  vessels  produce  a 
far  more  musical  sound  in  falling  than  those  which  are  sub¬ 
stantial,  so  it  will  oftentimes  be  found  that  sentiments  which 
have  nothing  in  them  make  the  loudest  ringing  in  the  world, 
and  are  the  most  relished. 

THE  thoughts  of  worldly  men  are  forever  regulated  by  a 
moral  law  of  gravitation,  which,  like  the  physical  one, 
holds  them  down  to  earth.  The  bright  glory  of  day,  and  the 
silent  wonders  of  a  starlit  night,  appeal  to  their  minds  in  vain. 
There  are  no  signs  in  the  sun,  or  in  the  moon,  or  in  the  stars, 
for  their  reading.  They  are  like  some  wise  men,  who,  learning 
to  know  each  planet  by  its  Latin  name,  have  quite  forgotten 
such  small  heavenly  constellations  as  Charity,  Forbearance, 
Universal  Love,  and  Mercy,  although  they  shine  by  night  and 
day  so  brightly  that  the  blind  may  see  them  ;  and  who,  looking 
upward  at  the  spangled  sky,  see  nothing  there  but  the  reflec¬ 
tion  of  their  own  great  wisdom  and  book-learning. 


228 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


It  is  curious  to  imagine  these  people  of  the  world,  busy  in 
thought,  turning  their  eyes  toward  the  countless  spheres  that 
shine  above  us,  and  making  them  reflect  the  only  images  their 
minds  contain.  The  man  who  lives  but  in  the  breath  of  princes 
has  nothing  in  his  sight  but  stars  for  courtiers’  breasts.  The 
envious  man  beholds  his  neighbors’  honors  even  in  the  sky ;  to 
the  money-hoarder,  and  the  mass  of  worldly  folk,  the  whole 
great  universe  above  glitters  with  sterling  coin,  fresh  from  the 
mint,  stamped  with  the  sovereign’s  head,  coming  always  be¬ 
tween  them  and  heaven,  turn  where  they  may.  So  do  the 
shadows  of  our  own  desires  stand  between  us  and  our  better 
angels,  and  thus  their  brightness  is  eclipsed. 

U«T  T  E  an’t  blown  away,  I  suppose,”  said  Parkes.  “It’s 
1  X  enough  to  carry  a  man  of  his  figure  off  his  legs,  and 
easy,  too.  Do  you  hear  it?  It  blows  great  guns,  indeed. 
There’ll  be  many  a  crash  in  the  Forest  to-night,  I  reckon,  and 
many  a  broken  branch  upon  the  ground  to-morrow.” 

“  It  won’t  break  anything  in  the  Maypole,  I  take  it,  sir,”  re¬ 
turned  old  John.  “  Let  it  try.  I  give  it  leave — what’s  that?” 

“The  wind,”  cried  Parkes.  “  It’s  howling  like  a  Christian, 
and  has  been  all  night  long.” 

uPO  ends,  my  lord,”  said  Gashford,  filling  his  glass  with 
vD  great  complacency,  “  the  blessed  work  of  a  most  blessed 
day.” 

“  And  of  a  blessed  yesterday,”  said  his  lordship,  raising  his 
head. 

“Ah  !” — and  here  the  secretary  clasped  his  hands — “a  blessed 
yesterday  indeed  !  The  Protestants  of  Suffolk  are  godly  men 
and  true.  Though  others  of  our  countrymen  have  lost  their 
way  in  darkness,  even  as  we,  my  lord,  did  lose  our  road  to¬ 
night,  theirs  is  the  light  and  glory.” 

“  Did  I  move  them,  Gashford  ?  ”  said  Lord  George. 


\ 


CA  RICA  TURES.  229 

“  Move  them,  my  lord !  Move  them !  They  cried  to  be 
led  on  against  the  Papists,  they  vowed  a  dreadful  vengeance 
on  their  heads,  they  roared  like  men  possessed — ” 

“  But  not  by  devils,”  -said  his  lord. 

“  By  devils  !  my  lord  !  By  angels.” 

“Yes — oh  surely — by  angels,  no  doubt,”  said  Lord  George, 
thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  taking  them  out  again  to 
bite  his  nails,  and  looking  uncomfortably  at  the  fire.  “  Of 
course  by  angels — eh  Gashford  ?  ” 

“You  do  not  doubt  it,  my  lord,”  said  the  secretary. 

“No — no,”  returned  his  lord.  “No.  Why  should  I?  I 
suppose  it  would  be  decidedly  irreligious  to  doubt  it — wouldn’t 
it,  Gashford  ?  Though  there  certainly  were,”  he  added,  with¬ 
out  waiting  for  an  answer,  “  some  plaguy  ill-looking  characters 
among  them.” 

u  T3ETWEEN  Bloody  Marys,  and  blue  cockades,  and  glori- 
JD  011s  Queen  Besses,  and  no  Poperys,  and  Protestant 
associations,  and  making  of  speeches,”  pursued  John  Grueby, 
looking,  as  usual,  a  long  way  off,  and  taking  no  notice  of  this 
hint,  “my  lord’s  half  off  his  head.  When  we  go  out  o’  doors, 
such  a  set  of  ragamuffins  comes  a-shouting  after  us  ‘Gordon 
forever  !  ’  that  I’m  ashamed  of  myself  and  don’t  know  where  to 
look.  When  w^e’re  indoors,  they  come  a-roaring  and  screaming 
about  the  house  like  so  many  devils ;  and  my  lord  instead  of 
ordering  them  to  be  drove  away,  goes  out  into  the  balcony  and 
demeans  himself  by  making  speeches  to  ’em,  and  calls  ’em 
‘Men  of  England,’  and  ‘  Fellow-countrymen,’  as  if  he  was  fond 
of  ’em  and  thanked  ’em  for  coming.  I  can’t  make  it  out,  but 
they’re  all  mixed  up  somehow  or  another  with  that  unfort’ nate 
Bloody  Mary,  and  call  her  name  out  till  they’re  hoarse.  They’re 
all  Protestants,  too — every  man  and  boy  among  ’em  :  and 
Protestants  is  very  fond  of  spoons  I  find,  and  silver-plate  in 
general,  whenever  area-gates  is  left  open  accidentally.  I  wish 
that  was  the  worst  of  it,  and  that  no  more  harm  might  be  to 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


^3° 

come ;  but  if  you  don’t  stop  these  ugly  customers  in  time,  Mr. 
Gashford  (and  I  know  you ;  you’re  the  man  that  blows  the 
fire),  you’ll  find  ’em  grow  a  little  bit  too  strong  for  you.  One 
of  these  evenings,  when  the  weather  gets  warmer  and  Protes¬ 
tants  are  thirsty,  they’ll  be  pulling  London  down, — and  I  never 
heerd  that  Bloody  Mary  went  as  far  as  that” 

u  TJ)ARLIAMENT  says  this  here — says  Parliament  ‘If  any 

X  man,  woman,  or  child  does  anything  which  goes  again 
a  certain  number  of  our  acts  ’ — how  many  hanging  laws  may 
there  be  at  this  present  time,  Muster  Gashford  ?  Fifty  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  exactly  know  how  many,”  replied  Gashford,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  yawning;  “a  great  number,  though.” 

“Well ;  say  fifty.  Parliament  says  ‘  If  any  man,  woman,  or 
child  does  anything  again  any  one  of  them  fifty  acts,  that  man, 
woman,  or  child  shall  be  worked  off  by  Dennis.’  George  the 
Third  steps  in  when  they  number  very  strong  at  the  end  of  a 
session,  and  says  ‘  These  are  too  many  for  Dennis.  I’ll  have 
half  for  7/zyself  and  Dennis  shall  have  half  for  himseli ;  ’ 
and  sometimes  he  throws  me  in  one  over  that  I  don’t  expect, 
as  he  did  three  years  ago,  when  I  got  Mary  Jones,  a  young 
woman  of  nineteen  who  come  up  to  Tyburn  with  a  infant  at 
her  breast,  and  was  worked  off  for  taking  a  piece  of  cloth  off 
the  counter  of  a  shop  in  Ludgate  Hill,  and  putting  it  down 
again  when  the  shopman  see  her  ;  and  who  had  never  done 
any  harm  before,  and  only  tried  to  do  that,  in  consequence  of 
her  husband  having  been  pressed  three  weeks  previous,  and 
she  being  left  to  beg,  with  two  young  children — as  was  proved 
upon  the  trial.  Ha,  ha  ! — Well !  That  being  the  law  and  the 
practice  of  England,  is  the  glory  of  England,  an’t  it,  Muster 
Gashford  ?  ” 

“  Certainly,”  said  the  secretary. 

“And  in  times  to  come,”  pursued  the  hangman,  “if  our 
grandsons  should  think  of  their  grandfathers’  times,  and  find 
these  things  altered,  they’ll  say  ‘  Those  were  days  indeed,  and 


C A  RICA  TURES. 


23I 


we’ve  been  going  down  hill  ever  since.’ — Won’t  they,  Muster 
Gashford  ?  ” 

TAVE  I  no  feeling  for  you,  because  I  am  blind?  No, 
I  have  not.  Why  do  you  expect  me,  being  in  dark¬ 
ness,  to  be  better  than  men  who  have  their  sight — why  should 
you  ?  Is  the  hand  of  Heaven  more  manifest  in  my  having  no 
eyes,  than  in  your  having  two?  It’s  the  cant  of  you  folks  to 
be  horrified  if  a  blind  man  robs,  or  lies,  or  steals;  oh  yes,  it’s 
far  worse  in  him,  who  can  barely  live  on  the  few  half-pence 
that  are  thrown  to  him  in  streets,  than  in  you,  who  can  see, 
and  work,  and  are  not  dependent  on  the  mercies  of  the  world. 
A  curse  on  you  !  You  who  have  five  senses  may  be  wicked  at 
your  pleasure ;  we  who  have  four,  and  want  the  most  import¬ 
ant,  are  to  live  and  be  moral  on  our  affliction.  The  true 
charity  and  justice  of  rich  to  poor,  all  the  world  over  !  ” 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

THE  gloomy  taint  that  was  in  the  Murdstone  blood,  dark¬ 
ened  the  Murdstone  religion,  which  was  austere  and 
wrathful.  I  have  thought,  since,  that  its  assuming  that  charac¬ 
ter  was  a  necessary  consequence  of  Mr.  Murdstone’ s  firmness, 
which  wouldn’t  allow  him  to  let  anybody  off  from  the  utmost 
weight  of  the  severest  penalties  he  could  find  any  excuse  for. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  I  well  remember  the  tremendous  visages  with 
which  we  used  to  go  to  church,  and  the  changed  air  of  the 
place.  Again  the  dreaded  Sunday  comes  round,  and  I  file  into 
the  old  pew  first,  like  a  guarded  captive  brought  to  a  con¬ 
demned  service.  Again,  Miss  Murdstone,  in  a  black  velvet 
gown,  that  looks  as  if  it  had  been  made  out  of  a  pall,  follows 
close  upon  me  ;  then  my  mother ;  then  her  husband.  There 


232 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


is  no  Peggotty  now,  as  in  the  old  time.  Again,  I  listen  to 
Miss  Murdstone  mumbling  the  responses,  and  emphasizing  all 
the  dread  words  with  a  cruel  relish.  Again,  I  see  her  dark  eyes 
roll  round  the  church  when  she  says  “miserable  sinners,”  as  if 
she  were  calling  all  the  congregation  names.  Again,  I  catch 
rare  glimpses  of  my  mother,  moving  her  lips  timidly  between 
the  two,  with  one  of  them  muttering  at  each  ear  like  low  thun¬ 
der.  Again,  I  wonder  with  a  sudden  fear  whether  it  is  likely 
that  our  good  old  clergyman  can  be  wrong,  and  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdstone  right,  and  that  all  the  angels  in  heaven  can  be  de¬ 
stroying  angels.  Again,  if  I  move  a  finger  or  relax  a  muscle  of 
my  face,  Miss  Murdstone  pokes  me  with  her  prayer-book,  and 
makes  my  side  ache. 

% 

AS  to  any  recreation  with  other  children  of  my  age,  I  had 
very  little  of  that ;  for  the  gloomy  theology  of  the  Murd- 
stones  made  all  children  out  to  be  a  swarm  of  little  vipers 
(though  there  was  a  child  once  set  in  the  midst  of  the  disci¬ 
ples),  and  held  that  they  contaminated  one  another. 

AS  I  did  not  care,  however/  to  get  to  Plighgate  before  one 
or  two  o’clock  in  the  day,  and  as  we  had  another  little 
excommunication  case  in  court  that  morning,  which  was  called 
The  Office  of  the  Judge  promoted  by  Tipkins  against  Bullock 
for  his  soul’s  correction,  I  passed  an  hour  or  two  in  attendance 
on  it  with  Mr.  Spenlow  very  agreeably.  It  arose  out  of  a 
scuffle  between  two  churchwardens,  one  of  whom  was  alleged  to 
have  pushed  the  other  against  a  pump  ;  the  handle  of  which 
pump  projecting  into  a  school-house,  which  school-house  was 
under  a  gable  of  the  church-roof,  made  the  push  an  ecclesiasti¬ 
cal  offence.  It  was  an  amusing  case  ;  and  sent  me  up  to  High- 
gate,  on  the  box  of  the  stage-coach,  thinking  about  the  Com¬ 
mons,  and  what  Mr.  Spenlow  had  said  about  touching  the 
Commons  and  bringing  down  the  country. 


CARICA  TURKS. 


233 


1~\0ES  he  gloomily  profess  to  be  (I  am  ashamed  to  use 

J _ '  the  word  in  such  association)  religious  still?”  I  in¬ 

quired. 

“You  anticipate,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chillip,  his  eyelids  getting 
quite  red  with  the  unwonted  stimulus  in  which  he  was  indulg¬ 
ing,  “one  of  Mrs.  Chillip’ s  most  impressive  remarks.  Mrs. 
Chillip,”  he  proceeded,  in  the  calmest  and  slowest  manner, 
“quite  electrified  me,  by  pointing  out  that  Mr.  Murdstone  sets 
up  an  image  of  himself,  and  calls  it  the  Divine  Nature.  You 
might  have  knocked  me  down  on  the  flat  of  my  back,  sir,  with 
the  feather  of  a  pen,  I  assure  you,  when  Mrs.  Chillip  said  so. 
The  ladies  are  great  observers,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Intuitively,”  said  I,  to  his  extreme  delight. 

“  I  am  very  happy  to  receive  such  support  in  my  opinion, 
sir,”  he  rejoined.  “  It  is  not  often  that  I  venture  to  give  anon- 
medical  opinion,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Murdstone  delivers  pub¬ 
lic  addresses  sometimes,  and  it  is  said, — in  short,  sir,  it  is  said 
by  Mrs.  Chillip — that  the  darker  tyrant  he  has  lately  been,  the 
more  ferocious  is  his  doctrine.” 

“  I  believe  Mrs.  Chillip  to  be  perfectly  right,”  said  I. 

“  Mrs.  Chillip  does  go  so  far  as  to  say,”  pursued  the  meek¬ 
est  of  little  men,  much  encouraged,  “that  what  such  people 
miscall  their  religion,  is  a  vent  for  their  bad-humors  and  arro¬ 
gance.  And  do  you  know  I  must  say,  sir,”  he  continued, 
mildly  laying  his  head  on  one  side,  “  that  I  dotit  find  authority 
for  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  in  the  New  Testament?” 

“  I  have  never  found  it  either  !  ”  said  I. 

“  In  the  meantime,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chillip,  “  they  are  much 
disliked  ;  and  as  they  are  very  free  in  consigning  everybody 
who  dislikes  them  to  perdition,  we  really  have  a  good  deal  of 
perdition  going  on  in  our  neighborhood  !  However,  as  Mrs. 
Chillip  says,  sir,  they  undergo  a  continual  punishment ;  for 
they  are  turned  inward,  to  feed  upon  their  own  hearts,  and 
their  own  hearts  are  very  bad  feeding.” 


234 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


FROM  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 

T  T  OW’S  mother-in-law,  this  mornin’  ?” 

11  “  Queer,  Sammy,  queer,”  replied  the  elder  Mr. 

Weller,  with  impressive  gravity.  “She’s  been  gettin’  rayther 
in  the  Methodistical  order  lately,  Sammy ;  and,  she  is  uncom¬ 
mon  pious,  to  be  sure.  She’s  too  good  a  creetur  for  me,  Sam¬ 
my.  I  feel  I  don’t  deserve  her.” 

“Ah,”  said  Mr.  Samuel,  “that’s  wery  self-denyin’  o’  you.” 

“  Wery,”  replied  his  parent,  with  a  sigh.  “  She’s  got  hold  o’ 
some  inwention  for  grown-up  people  being  born  again,  Sam¬ 
my  ;  the  new  birth,  I  think  they  calls  it.  I  should  wery  much 
like  to  see  that  system  in  haction,  Sammy.  I  should  wery 
much  like  to  see  your  mother-in-law  born  again.  Wouldn’t  I 
put  her  out  to  nurse  !  ” 

“  What  do  you  think  them  women  does  t’other  day,”  con¬ 
tinued  Mr.  Weller  after  a  short  pause,  during  which  he  had 
significantly  struck  the  side  of  his  nose  with  his  forefinger 
some  half  dozen  times.  “What  do  you  think  they  does, 
t’other  day,  Sammy?” 

“Don’t  know,”  replied  Sam,  “what?” 

“  Goes  and  gets  up  a  grand  tea-drinkin’  for  a  feller  they 
calls  their  shepherd,”  said  Mr.  Weller.  “I  was  a-standing 
starin’  in  at  the  pictur  shop  down  at  our  place,  when  I  sees  a 
little  bill  about  it ;  1  tickets  half-a-crown.  All  applications  to 
be  made  to  the  committee.  Secretary,  Mrs.  Weller ;  ’  and 
when  I  got  home  there  was  the  committee  a-sittin’  in  our  back 
parlor.  Fourteen  women ;  I  wish  you  could  ha’  heard  ’em, 
Sammy.  There  they  was,  a  passin’  resolutions,  and  wotin 
supplies,  and  all  sort  o’  games.  Well,  what  with  your  mother- 
in-law  a-worrying  me  to  go,  and  what  with  my  looking  for’ard 
to  seein’  some  queer  starts  if  I  did,  I  put  my  name  down  for  a 
ticket;  at  six  o’clock  on  the  Friday  evenin’  I  dresses  myself 
out  very  smart,  and  off  I  goes  with  the  old  ’ooman,  and  up  we 
walks  into  a  fust  floor  where  there  was  tea-things  for  thirty, 


C A  RICA  TURKS. 


235 


and  a  whole  lot  o’  women,  as  begins  whisperin’  to  one  another, 
and  lookin’  at  me,  as  if  they’d  never  seen  a  rayther  stout 
gem’lm’n  of  eight-and-fifty  afore.  By  and  by  there  comes  a 
great  bustle  downstairs,  and  a  lanky  chap  with  a  red  nose  and 
a  white  neckcloth  rushes  up,  and  sings  out,  4  Here’s  the  shep¬ 
herd  a-coming  to  wisit  his  faithful  flock  ;  ’  and  in  comes  a  fat 
chap  in  black,  with  a  great  white  face,  a-smilin’  avay  like 
clockwork.  Such  goin’s  on,  Sammy!  ‘The  kiss  of  peace,’ 
says  the  shepherd ;  and  then  he  kissed  the  women  all  round, 
and  ven  he’d  done  the  man  with  the  red  nose  began.  I  was 
just  a-thinkin’  whether  I  hadn’t  better  begin  too — ’specially  as 
there  was  a  werry  nice  lady  a-sittin’  next  me — ven  in  comes 
the  tea,  and  your  mother-in-law,  as  had  been  makin’  the  kettle 
bile  downstairs.  At  it  they  went,  tooth  and  nail.  Such  a 
precious  loud  hymn,  Sammy,  while  the  tea  was  a-brewing ; 
such  a  grace,  such  eatin’  and  drinkin’  !  I  wish  you  could 
ha’  seen  the  shepherd  walkin’  into  the  ham  and  muffins.  I 
never  see  such  a  chap  to  eat  and  drink;  never.  The- red¬ 
nosed  man  warn’t  by  no  means  the  sort  of  person  you’d  like  to 
grub  by  contract,  but  he  was  nothin’  to  the  shepherd.  Well ; 
arter  the  tea  was  over,  they  sang  another  hymn,  and  then  the 
shepherd  began  to  preach  ;  and  wery  well  he  did  it,  considerin’ 
how  heavy  them  muffins  must  have  lied  on  his  chest.  Pres¬ 
ently  he  pulls  up,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  hollers  out  4  Where  is  the 
sinner ;  where  is  the  mis’rable  sinner  ?  ’  Upon  which,  all  the 
women  looked  at  me,  and  began  to  groan  as  if  they  was  a-dy- 
ing.  I  thought  it  was  rather  sing’lar,  but  hows’ ever,  I  says 
nothing.  Presently  he  pulls  up  again,  and  lookin’  wery  hard  at 
me,  says,  4  Where  is  the  sinner ;  where  is  the  mis’rable  sinner  ?  ’ 
and  all  the  women  groans  again,  ten  times  louder  than  afore. 
I  got  rather  wild  at  this,  so  I  takes  a  step  or  two  for’ard  and 
says,  4 My  friend,’  says  I,  ‘did  you  apply  that  ’ere  obserwation 
to  me  ?  ’  ’Stead  of  begging  my  pardon  as  any  genTm’11  would 
ha’  done,  he  got  more  abusive  than  ever  ;  called  me  a  wessel, 
Sammy — a  wessel  of  wrath — and  all  sorts  o’  names.  So  my 
blood  being  reg’larly  up,  I  iirst  give  him  two  or  three  for  him- 


236 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


self,  and  then  two  or  three  more  to  hand  over  to  the  man  with 
the  red  nose,  and  walked  off.  I  wish  you  could  ha’  heard 
how  the  women  screamed,  Sammy,  ven  they  picked  up  the 
shepherd  from  under  the  table. 


U  worst  o’  these  here  shepherds  is,  my  boy,  that  they 

X  reg’larly  turns  the  heads  of  all  the  young  ladies  about 
here.  Lord  bless  their  little  hearts,  they  thinks  it’s  all  right, 
and  don’t  know  no  better;  but  they’re  the  wictims  o’  gam¬ 
mon,  Samivel  ;  they’re  the  wictims  o’  gammon.” 

“  I  s’pose  they  are,”  said  Sam. 

“  Nothin’  else,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  shaking  his  head  gravely; 
“  and  wot  aggrawates  me,  Samivel,  is  to  see  ’em  a- wastin’  all 
their  time  and  labor  in  making  clothes  for  copper-colored  peo¬ 
ple  as  don’t  want  ’em,  and  taking  no  notice  of  flesh-colored 
Christians  as  do.  If  I’d  my  vay,  Samivel,  I’d  just  stick  some 
o’  these  here  lazy  shepherds  behind  a  heavy  wheelbarrow,  and 
run  ’em  up  and  down  a  fourteen-inch- wide  plank  all  day. 
That  ’ud  shake  the  nonsense  out  of ’em,  if  anythin’  vould.” 


HPI  furthermore  conjured  him  to  avoid,  above  all  things, 
the  vice  of  intoxication,  which  he  likened  unto  the 
filthy  habits  of  swine,  and  to  those  poisonous  and  baleful  drugs 
which,  being  chewed  in  the  mouth,  are  said  to  filch  away  the 
memory.  At  this  point  of  his  discourse,  the  reverend  and  red¬ 
nosed  gentleman  became  singularly  incoherent,  and  staggering 
to  and  fro,  in  the  excitement  of  his  eloquence,  was  fain  to  catch 
at  the  back  of  a  chair  to  preserve  his  perpendicular. 

Mr.  Stiggins  did  not  desire  his  hearers  to  be  upon  their  guard 
against  those  false  prophets  and  wretched  mockers  of  religion, 
who,  without  sense  to  expound  its  first  doctrines,  or  hearts  to 
feel  its  first  principles,  are  more  dangerous  members  of  society 


C A  RICA  TURES. 


237 


than  the  common  criminal ;  imposing,  as  they  necessarily  do, 
upon  the  weakest  and  worst-informed,  casting  scorn  and  con¬ 
tempt  on  what  should  be  held  most  sacred,  and  bringing  into 
partial  disrepute  large  bodies  of  virtuous  and  well-conducted 
persons  of  many. excellent  sects  and  persuasions.  But  as  he 
leant  over  the  back  of  the  chair  for  a  considerable  time,  and 
closing  one  eye,  winked  a  good  deal  with  the  other,  it  is  pre¬ 
sumed  that  he  thought  all  this,  but  kept  it  to  himself. 

u  T  WOS  a-thinkin’,  Sammy,”,  said  Mr.  Weller,  eying  his  son 

1  with  great  earnestness  over  his  pipe,  as  if  to  assure 
him  that,  however  extraordinary  and  incredible  the  declaration 
might  appear,  it  was  nevertheless  calmly  and  deliberately  ut¬ 
tered.  “  I  wos  a-thinkin’,  Sammy,  that  upon  the  whole  I  wos 
werry  sorry  she  wos  gone.” 

“  Veil,  and  so  you  ought  to  be,”  replied  Sam. 

Mr.  Weller  nodded  his  acquiescence  in  the  sentiment,  and 
•  again  fastening  his  eyes  on  the  fire,  shrouded  himself  in  a  cloud, 
and  mused  deeply. 

“  Those  wos  wery  sensible  observations  as  she  made, 
Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller  driving  the  smoke  away  with  his 
hand,  after  a  long  silence. 

“  Wot  observations  ?  ”  inquired  Sam. 

“  Them  as  she  made  arter  she  was  took  ill,”  replied  the  old 
gentleman. 

“  Wot  wos  they  ?  ” 

“Somethin’  to  this  here  effect.  ‘Veller,’  she  says,  ‘I’m 
afeard  I’ve  not  done  by  you  quite  wot  I  ought  to  have  done ; 
you’re  a  wery  kind-hearted  man,  and  I  might  ha’  made  your 
home  more  comfortabler.  I  begin  to  see  now,’  she  says,  ‘  ven 
it’s  too  late,  that  if  a  married  ’ooman  vishes  to  be  religious,  she 
should  begin  vith  dischargin’  her  dooties  at  home,  and  makin’ 
them  as  is  about  her  cheerful  and  happy,  and  that  vile  she  goes 
to  church,  or  chapel,  or  wot  not,  at  all  proper  times,  she 
should  be  wery  careful  not  to  con-wert  this  sort  o’  thing  into  a 


23B 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


excuse  for  idleness  or  self-indulgence.  I  have  done  this/  she 
says,  ‘  and  I’ve  vasted  time  and  substance  on  them  as  has 
done  it  more  than  me ;  but  I  hope  ven  I’m  gone,  Veller,  that 
you’ll  think  on  me  as  I  wos  afore  I  know’d  them  people,  and 
as  I  raly  wos  by  natur’.’  ‘Susan,’  says  I — I  was  took  up  wery 
short  by  this,  Samivel ;  I  won’t  deny  it,  my  boy — ‘  Susan,’  I 
says,  ‘you’ve  been  a  wery  good  vife  to  me,  altogether;  don’t 
say  nothin’  at  all  about  it ;  keep  a  good  heart,  my  dear ;  and 
you’ll  live  to  see  me  punch  that  ’ere  Stiggins’s  head  yet.’  She 
smiled  at  this,  Samivel,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  stifling  a  sigh 
with  his  pipe,  “but  she  died  arter  all  !  ” 

“Veil,”  said  Sam,  venturing  to  offer  a  little  homely  consola¬ 
tion,  after  the  lapse  of  three  or  four  minutes,  consumed  by  the 
old  gentleman  in  slowly  shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and 
solemnly  smoking ;  “  veil,  gov’ner,  ve  must  all  come  to  it,  one 
day  or  another.” 

“  So  we  must,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller  the  elder. 

“  There’s  a  Providence  in  it  all,”  said  Sam. 

“  O’  course  there  is,”  replied  his  father,  with  a  nod  of  grave 
approval.  “Wot  ’ud  become  of  the  undertakers  vithout  it, 
Sammy  ?  ” 

Lost  in  the  immense  field  of  conjecture  opened  by  this  reflec¬ 
tion,  the  elder  Mr.  Weller  laid  his  pipe  on  the  table,  and  stirred 
the  fire  with  a  meditative  visage. 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


239 


LIFE’S  SHADOWS. 

- o - 

CHAPTER  VII. 

FROM  THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

46  T  F  he  deserts  me,  Nell,  at  this  moment — if  he  deserts  me 
X  now,  when  I  should,  with  his  assistance,  be  recompensed 
for  all  the  time  and  money  I  have  lost,  and  all  the  agony  of 
mind  I  have  undergone,  which  makes  me  what  you  see,  I  am 
ruined,  and — worse,  far  worse  than  that — have  ruined  thee,  for 
whom  I  ventured  all.  If  we  are  beggars — ” 

“  What  if  we  are  ?  ”  said  the  child  boldly.  “  Let  us  be  beg¬ 
gars,  and  be  happy.” 

“  Beggars — and  happy  !  ”  said  the  old  man.  “  Poor  child  !  ” 
“  Dear  grandfather !  ”  cried  the  girl,  with  an  energy  which 
shone  in  her  flushed  face,  trembling  voice,  and  impassioned 
gesture,  “ 1  am  not  a  child  in  that  I  think,  but  even  if  I  am, 
oh,  hear  me  pray  that  we  may  beg,  or  work  in  open  roads  or 
fields,  to  earn  a  scanty  living,  rather  than  live  as  we  do  now.” 

“  Nelly,”  said  the  old  man. 

“Yes,  yes,  rather  than  live  as  we  do  now,”  the  child  repeated, 
more  earnestly  than  before.  “  If  you  are  sorrowful,  let  me 
know  why,  and  be  sorrowful  too ;  if  you  waste  away  and  are 
paler  and  weaker  every  day,  let  me  be  your  nurse  and  try  to 
comfort  you.  If  you  are  poor,  let  us  be  poor  together ;  but 
let  me  be  with  you,  do  let  me  be  with  you  ;  do  not  let  me  see 
such  change,  and  not  know  why,  or  I  shall  break  my  heart  and 
die.  Dear  grandfather,  let  us  leave  this  sad  place  to-morrow, 
and  beg  our  way  from  door  to  door.” 


2.10 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


The  old  man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  hid  it  in 
the  pillow  of  the  couch  on  which  he  lay. 

“  Let  us  be  beggars,”  said  the  child,  passing  an  arm  round 
his  neck.  “I  have  no  fear  but  we  shall  have  enough;  I  am 
sure  we  shall.  Let  us  walk  through  country  places,  and  sleep 
in  fields  and  under  trees,  and  never  think  of  money  again,  or 
anything  that  can  make  you  sad  ;  but  rest  at  nights,  and  have 
the  sun  and  wind  upon  our  faces  in  the  day,  and  thank  God  to¬ 
gether  !  Let  us  never  set  foot  in  dark  rooms  or  melancholy 
houses  any  more,  but  wander  up  and  down  wherever  we  like 
to  go  ;  and  when  you  are  tired,  you  shall  stop  to  rest  in  the 
pleasantest  place  that  we  can  find,  and  I  will  go  and  beg  for 
both.” 

The  child’s  voice  was  lost  in  sobs  as  she  dropped  upon  the 
old  man’s  neck  ;  nor  did  she  weep  alone. 


IN  one  so  young,  and  so  unused  to  the  scenes  in  which  she 
had  lately  moved,  this  sinking  of  the  spirit  was  not  surpris¬ 
ing.  But  Nature  often  enshrines  gallant  and  noble  hearts  in 
weak  bosoms — oftenest,  God  bless  her,  in  female  breasts — and 
when  the  child,  casting  her  tearful  eyes  upon  the  old  man,  re¬ 
membered  how  weak  he  was,  and  how  destitute  and  helpless  he 
would  be  if  she  failed  him,  her  heart  swelled  within  her,  and 
animated  her  with  new  strength  and  fortitude. 


}Y  E  was  a  very  young  boy  ;  quite  a  little  child.  His  hair 
Jl  still  hung  in  curls  about  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were  very 
bright ;  but  their  light  was  of  heaven,  not  earth.  The  school¬ 
master  took  a  seat  beside  him,  and  stooping  over  the  pillow, 
whispered  his  name.  The  boy  sprung  up,  stroked  his  face 
with  his  hand,  and  threw  his  wasted  arms  round  his  neck,  cry¬ 
ing  out  that  he  was  his  dear,  kind  friend. 

“  I  hope  I  always  was.  I  meant  to  be,  God  knows,”  said 
the  poor  schoolmaster. 


LIFHS  SHADOWS. 


24I 


“  Who  is  that  ?  ”  said  the  boy,  seeing  Nell.  “  I  am  afraid  to 
kiss  her,  lest  I  should  make  her  ill.  Ask  her  to  shake  hands 
with  me.” 

The  sobbing  child  came  closer  up,  and  took  the  little,  lan¬ 
guid  hand  in  hers.  Releasing  his  again  after  a  time,  the  sick 
boy  laid  him  gently  down. 

“  You  remember  the  garden,  Harry,”  whispered  the  school¬ 
master,  anxious  to  rouse  him,  for  a  dulness  seemed  gathering 
upon  the  child,  “  and  how  pleasant  it  used  to  be  in  the  evening 
time  ?  You  must  make  haste  to  visit  it  again,  for  I  think  the 
very  flowers  have  missed  you,  and  are  less  gay  than  they  used 
to  be.  You  will  come  soon,  my  dear,  very  soon  now — won’t 
you  ?  ” 

The  boy  smiled  faintly — so  very,  very  faintly — and  put  his 
hand  upon  his  friend’s  gray  head.  He  moved  his  lips  too,  but 
no  voice  came  from  them ;  no,  not  a  sound. 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  the  hum  of  distant  voices  borne 
upon  the  evening  air  came  floating  through  the  open  window. 
“  What’s  that  ?”  said  the  sick  child,  opening  his  eyes. 

“  The  boys  at  play  upon  the  green.” 

He  took  a  handkerchief  from  his  pillow,  and  tried  to  wave  it 
above  his  head.  But  the  feeble  arm  dropped  powerless  down. 

“  Shall  I  do  it  ?”  said  the  schoolmaster. 

“  Please  wave  it  at  the  window,”  was  the  faint  reply.  “Tie 
it  to  the  lattice.  Some  of  them  may  see  it  there.  Perhaps 
they’ll  think  of  me,  and  look  this  way.” 

He  raised  his  head,  and  glanced  from  the  fluttering  signal  to 
his  idle  bat  that  lay  with  slate  and  book  and  other  boyish  prop¬ 
erty  upon  a  table  in  the  room.  And  then  he  laid  him  softly 
down  once  more,  and  asked  if  the  little  girl  were  there,  for  he 
could  not  see  her. 

She  stepped  forward,  and  pressed  the  passive  hand  that  lay 
upon  the  coverlet.  The  two  old  friends  and  companions — for 
such  they  were,  though  they  were  man  and  child — held  each 
other  in  a  long  embrace,  and  then  the  little  scholar  turned  his 
face  towards  the  wall,  and  fell  asleep. 

11 


242 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


The  poor  schoolmaster  sat  in  the  same  place,  holding  the 
small  cold  hand  in  his,  and  chafing  it.  It  was  but  the  hand  of 
a  dead  child.  He  felt  that;  and  yet  he  chafed  it  still,  and 
could  not  lay  it  down. 

THE  plain,  frank  kindness  of  the  honest  schoolmaster,  the 
affectionate  earnestness  of  his  speech  and  manner,  the 
truth  which  was  stamped  upon  his  every  word  and  look,  gave 
the  child  a  confidence  in  him,  which  the  utmost  arts  of  treach¬ 
ery  and  dissimulation  could  never  have  awakened  in  her  breast. 
She  told  him  all — that  they  had  no  friend  or  relative — that  she 
had  fled  with  the  old  man,  to  save  him  from  a  mad-house,  and 
all  the  miseries  he  dreaded — that  she  was  flying  now,  to  save 
him  from  himself — and  that  she  sought  an  asylum  in  some  re¬ 
mote  and  primitive  place,  where  the  temptation  before  which 
he  fell  would  never  enter,  and  her  late  sorrows  and  distresses 
could  have  no  place. 

The  schoolmaster  heard  her  with  astonishment.  “This 
child!” — he  thought — “has  this  child  heroically  persevered 
under  all  doubts  and  dangers,  struggled  with  poverty  and  suffer¬ 
ing,  upheld  and  sustained  by  strong  affection  and  the  con¬ 
sciousness  of  rectitude  alone  !  And  yet  the  world  is  full  of 
such  heroism.  Have  I  yet  to  learn  that  the  hardest  and  best- 
borne  trials  are  those  which  are  never  chronicled  in  any  earthly 
record,  and  are  suffered  every  day  !  And  should  I  be  sur¬ 
prised  to  hear  the  story  of  this  child  !  ” 

SHE  had  sought  out  the  young  children  whom  she  first  saw 
playing  in  the  churchyard.  One  of  these — he  who  had 
spoken  of  his  brother — was  her  little  favorite  and  friend,  and 
often  sat  by  her  side  in  the  church,  or  climbed  with  her  to  the 
tower-top.  It  was  his  delight  to  help  her,  or  to  fancy  that  he 
did  so,  and  they  soon  became  close  companions. 

It  happened  that,  as  she  was  reading  in  the  old  spot  by  her- 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


243 


self  one  day,  this  child  came  running  in  with  his  eyes  full  of 
tears,  and  after  holding  her  from  him,  and  looking  at  her  eagerly 
for  a  moment,  clasped  his  little  arms  passionately  about  her 
neck. 

“What  now?”  said  Nell,  soothing  him.  “What  is  the 
matter  ?  ” 

“  She  is  not  one  yet !  ”  cried  the  boy,  embracing  her  still 
more  closely.  “No,  no;  not  yet.” 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and  putting  his  hair  back 
from  his  face,  and  kissing  him,  asked  what  he  meant. 

“You  must  not  be  one,  dear  Nell,”  cried  the  boy.  “We 
can’t  see  them.  They  never  come  to  play  with  us,  or  talk  to 
us.  Be  what  you  are.  You  are  better  so.” 

“I  do  not  understand  you,”  said  the  child.  “Tell  me  what 
you  mean.” 

“  Why,  they  say,”  replied  the  boy,  looking  up  into  her  face, 
“  that  you  will  be  an  angel  before  the  birds  sing  again.  But 
you  won’t  be,  will  you  ?  Don’t  lea,ve  us,  Nell,  though  the  sky 
is  bright.  Do  not  leave  us  !  ” 

The  child  dropped  her  head,  and  put  her  hands  before  her 
face. 

“She  cannot  bear  the  thought!”  cried  the  boy,  exulting 
through  his  tears.  “You  will  not  go.  You  know  how  sorry 
we  should  be.  Dear  Nell,  tell  me  that  you’ll  stay  among  us. 
Oh  !  Pray,  pray,  tell  me  that  you  will.” 

The  little  creature  folded  his  hands,  and  knelt  down  at  her 
feet. 

“  Only  look  at  me,  Nell,”  said  the  boy,  “  and  tell  me  that 
you’ll  stop,  and  then  I  shall  know  that  they  are  wrong,  and  will 
cry  no  more.  Won’t  you  say  yes,  Nell  ?  ” 

Still  the  drooping  head  and  hidden  face,  and  the  child  quite 
silent — save  for  her  sobs, 

“  After  a  time,”  pursued  the  boy,  trying  to  draw  away  her 
hand,  “  the  kind  angels  will  be  glad  to  think  that  you  are  not 
among  them,  and  that  you  stayed  here  to  be  with  us.  Willy 
went  away  to  join  them ;  but  if  he  had  known  how  I  should 


244 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


miss  him  in  our  little  bed  at  night,  he  never  would  have  left  me, 
I  am  sure.” 

Yet  the  child  could  make  him  no  answer,  and  sobbed  as 
though  her  heart  were  bursting. 

“Why  would  you  go,  dear  Nell  ?  I  know  you  would  not 
be  happy  when  you  heard  that  we  were  crying  for  your  loss. 
They  say  that  Willy  is  in  Heaven  now,  and  that  it’s  always  sum¬ 
mer  there,  and  yet  I’m  sure  he  grieves  when  I  lie  down  upon 
his  garden  bed,  and  he  cannot  turn  to  kiss  me.  But  if  you  do 
go,  Nell,”  said  the  boy,  caressing  her,  and  pressing  his  face  to 
hers,  “  be  fond  of  him,  for  my  sake.  Tell  him  how  I  love 
him  still,  and  how  much  I  loved  you ;  and  when  I  think  that 
you  two  are  together,  and  are  happy,  I’ll  try  to  bear  it,  and 
never  give  you  pain  by  doing  wrong — indeed,  I  never  will !  ’  ’ 

The  child  suffered  him  to  move  her  hands,  and  put  them 
round  his  neck  There  was  a  tearful  silence,  but  it  was  not 
long  before  she  looked  upon  him  with  a  smile,  and  promised 
him  in  a  very  gentle,  quiet  voice,  that  she  would  stay,  and  be 
his  friend,  as  long  as  Heaven  would  let  her.  He  clapped  his 
hands  for  joy,  and  thanked  her  many  times  ;  and  being  charged 
to  tell  no  person  what  had  passed  between  them,  gave  her  an 
earnest  promise  that  he  never  would. 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE. 

U  T  OE  WILLET,  or  his  ghost  ?  ”  said  Varden,  rising  from  the 
I  desk  at  which  he  was  busy  at  his  books,  and  looking  at 
him  under  his  spectacles.  “Which  is  it?  Joe  in  the  flesh, 
eh?  That’s  hearty.  And  how  are  all  the  Chigwell  company, 
Joe?” 

“  Much  as  usual,  sir — they  and  I  agree  as  well  as  ever.” 
“Well,  well!”  said  the  locksmith.  “We  must  be  patient, 
Joe,  and  bear  with  old  folks’  foibles.  How’s  the  mare,  Joe  ? 


LIFE’S  SHADOWS. 


245 


Does  she  do  the  four  miles  an  hour  as  easily  as  ever  ?  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  Does  she,  Joe  ?  Eh  ! — What  have  we  there,  Joe — a 
nosegay  ?  ” 

“  A  very  poor  one,  sir — I  thought  Miss  Dolly — ” 

“  No,  no,”  said  Gabriel,  dropping  his  voice,  and  shaking  his 
head,  “  not  Dolly.  Give  ’em  to  her  mother,  Joe.  A  great 
deal  better  give  ’em  to  her  mother.  Would  you  mind  giving 
’em  to  Mrs.  Varden,  Joe  ?” 

“  Oh  no,  sir,”  Joe  replied,  and  endeavoring,  but  not  with  the 
greatest  possible  success,  to  hide  his  disappointment.  “  I  shall 
be  very  glad,  I’m  sure.” 

“  That’s  right,”  said  the  locksmith,  patting  him  on  the  back. 
“  It  don’t  matter  who  has  ’em,  Joe  ?  ” 

“  Not  a  bit,  sir.” — Dear  heart,  how  the  words  stuck  in  his 
throat  ! 

“  Come  in,”  said  Gabriel.  u  I  have  just  been  called  to  tea. 
She’s  in  the  parlor.” 

“She,”  thought  Joe.  “Which  of ’em,  I  wonder — Mrs.  or 
Miss  ?  ”  The  locksmith  settled  the  doubt  as  neatly  as  if  it  had 
been  expressed  aloud,  by  leading  him  to  the  door,  and  saying, 
“  Martha,  my  dear,  here’s  young  Mr.  Willet.” 

Now,  Mrs.  Varden,  regarding  the  Maypole  as  a  sort  of 
human  man-trap,  or  decoy  for  husbands ;  viewing  its  proprie¬ 
tor,  and  all  who  aided  and  abetted  him,  in  the  light  of  so  many 
poachers  among  Christian  men  ;  and  believing,  moreover,  that 
the  publicans  coupled  with  sinners  in  Holy  Writ  were  veritable 
licensed  victuallers — was  far  from  being  favorably  disposed 
towards  her  visitor.  Wherefore  she  was  taken  faint  directly ; 
and  being  duly  presented  with  the  crocuses  and  snowdrops, 
divined  on  further  consideration  that  they  were  the  occasion 
of  the  languor  which  had  seized  upon  her  spirits.  “  I’m  afraid 
I  couldn’t  bear  the  room  another  minute,”  said  the  good  lady, 
“if  they  remained  here.  Would  you  excuse  my  putting  them 
out  the  window  ?  ” 

Joe  begged  she  wouldn’t  mention  it  on  any  account,  and 
smiled  feebly  as  he  saw  them  deposited  on  the  sill  outside.  If 


246 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


anybody  could  have  known  the  pains  he  had  taken  to  make  up 
that  despised  and  misused  bunch  of  flowers  ! 

“  I  feel  it  quite  a  relief  to  get  rid  of  them,  I  assure  you,” 
said  Mrs.  Varden.  “  I’m  better  already.”  And  indeed  she 
did  appear  to  have  plucked  up  her  spirits. 

Joe  expressed  his  gratitude  to  Providence  for  this  favorable 
dispensation,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  he  didn’t  wonder  where 
Dolly  was. 

AND  it  was  for  this  Joe  had  looked  forward  to  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  March  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  had  gathered 
the  flowers  with  so  much  care,  and  had  cocked  his  hat,  and 
made  himself  so  smart !  This  was  the  end  of  all  his  bold  de¬ 
termination,  resolved  upon  for  the  hundredth  time,  to  speak 
out  to  Dolly  and  tell  her  how  he  loved  her  !  To  see  her  for  a 
minute — for  but  a  minute — to  find  her  going  out  to  a  party  and 
glad  to  go ;  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  common  pipe-smoker, 
beer-bibber,  spirit-guzzler  and  tosspot !  He  bade  farewell  to 
his  friend  the  locksmith,  and  hastened  to  take  horse  at  the 
Black  Lion,  thinking  as  he  turned  towards  home,  as  many  an¬ 
other  Joe  has  thought  before  and  since,  that  here  was  an  end 
to  all  his  hopes — that  the  thing  was  impossible  and  never  could 
be — that  she  didn’t  care  for  him — that  he  was  wretched  for 
life — and  that  the  only  congenial  prospect  left  him,  was  to  go 
for  a  soldier  or  a  sailor,  and  get  some  obliging  enemy  to  knock 
his  brains  out  as  soon  as  possible. 


r  pO  be  shelterless  and  alone  in  the  open  country,  hearing 
-i-  the  wind  moan,  and  watching  for  day  through  the  whole 
long,  weary  night ;  to  listen  to  the  falling  rain,  and  crouch  for 
warmth  beneath  the  lee  of  some  old  barn  or  rick,  or  in  the  hol¬ 
low  of  a  tree — are  dismal  things,  but  not  so  dismal  as  the  wan¬ 
dering  up  and  down  where  shelter  is,  and  beds  and  sleepers  are 
by  thousands;  a  houseless,  rejected  creature.  To  pace  the 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


247 


echoing  stones  from  hour  to  hour,  counting  the  dull  chimes  of 
the  clocks  ;  to  watch  the  lights  twinkling  in  chamber-windows ; 
to  think  what  happy  forgetfulness  each  house  shuts  in ;  that 
here  are  children  coiled  together  in  their  beds,  here  youth,  here 
age,  here  poverty,  here  wealth,  all  equal  in  their  sleep,  and  all 
at  rest ;  to  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  slumbering  world 
around,  not  even  sleep,  Heaven’s  gift  to  all  its  creatures,  and 
be  akin  to  nothing  but  despair ;  to  feel,  by  the  wretched  con¬ 
trast  with  everything  on  every  hand,  more  utterly  alone  and 
cast  away  than  in  a  trackless  desert — this  is  a  kind  of  suffering, 
on  which  the  rivers  of  great  cities  close  full  many  a  time,  and 
which  the  solitude  in  crowds  alone  awakens. 

“'THE  curse  may  pass  your  lips,”  said  Edward,  “but  it 
JL  will  be-but  empty  breath.  I  do  not  believe  that  any  man 
on  earth  has  greater  power  to  call  one  down  upon  his  fellow — 
least  of  all  upon  his  own  child — than  he  has  to  make  one  drop 
of  rain  or  flake  of  snow  fall  from  the  clouds  above  us  at  his 
impious  bidding.  Beware,  sir,  what  you  do.” 

“You  are  so  very  irreligious,  so  exceedingly  undutiful,  so  hor¬ 
ribly  profane,”  rejoined  his  father,  turning  his  face  lazily  towards 
him,  and  cracking  another  nut,  “that  I  positively  must  inter¬ 
rupt  you  here.  It  is  quite  impossible  we  can  continue  to  go 
on,  upon  such  terms  as  these.  If  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to 
ring  the  bell,  the  servant  will  show  you  to  the  door.  Return 
to  this  roof  no  more,  I  beg  you.  Go,  sir,  since  you  have  no 
moral  sense  remaining :  and  go  to  the  Devil,  at  my  express  de¬ 
sire.  Good-day.” 

Edward  left  the  room,  without  another  word  or  look,  and 
turned  his  back  upon  the  house  forever. 


'T^'HIS  was  a  man  with  dusty  feet  and  garments,  who  stood 
JL  bareheaded,  behind  the  hedge  that  divided  their  patch 
of  garden  from  the  pathway,  and  leaned  meekly  forward  as  if 
he  sought  to  mingle  with  their  conversation,  and  waited  for  his 


248 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


time  to  speak.  His  face  was  turned  towards  the  brightness, 
too,  but  the  light  that  fell  upon  it  showed  that  he  was  blind, 
and  saw  it  not. 

“  A  blessing  on  those  voices  !  ”  said  the  wayfarer.  “  I  feel 
the  beauty  of  the  night  more  keenly,  when  I  hear  them.  They 
are  like  eyes  to  me.  Will  they  speak  again,  and  cheer  the 
heart  of  a  poor  traveller  ?  ” 

“Have  you  no  guide?”  asked  the  widow,  after  a  moment’s 
pause. 

“  None  but  that,”  he  answered,  pointing  with  his  staff  to¬ 
wards  the  sun  ;  “  and  sometimes  a  milder  one  at  night,  but  she 
is  idle  now.” 

“  Have  you  travelled  far  ?  ” 

“  A  weary  way  and  long,”  rejoined  the  traveller,  as  he  shook 
his  head.  “  A  weary,  weary  way.  I  struck  my  stick  just  now 
upon  the  bucket  of  your  well — be  pleased  to  let  me  have  a 
draught  of  water,  lady.” 

“  Why  do  you  call  me  lady  ?  ”  she  returned.  “  I  am  as  poor 
as  you.” 

“  Your  speech  is  soft  and  gentle,  and  I  judge  by  that,”  re¬ 
plied  the  man.  “  The  coarsest  stuffs  and  finest  silks  are — 
apart  from  the  sense  of  touch — alike  to  me.  I  cannot  judge 
you  by  your  dress.” 

“  Come  round  this  Avay,”  said  Barnaby,  who  had  passed  out 
at  the  garden  gate,  and  now  stood  close  beside  him.  “  Put 
your  hand  in  mine.  You’re  blind,  and  always  in  the  dark,  eh  ? 
Are  you  frightened  in  the  dark  ?  Do  you  see  great  crowds  of 
faces,  now  ?  Do  they  grin  and  chatter  ?  ” 

“Alas!”  returned  the  other,  “I  see  nothing.  Waking  or 
sleeping,  nothing.” 

Barnaby  looked  curiously  at  his  eyes,  and  touching  them 
with  his  fingers,  as  an  inquisitive  child  might,  led  him  towards 
the  house. 

“You  have  come  a  long  distance,”  said  the  widow,  meeting 
him  at  the  door.  “  How  have  you  found  your  way  so  far  ?  ” 

“  Use  and  necessity  are  good  teachers,  as  I  have  heard — the 


LIFE'S  SNA  DOPES. 


249 


best  of  any,”  said  the  blind  man,  sitting  down  upon  the  chair  to 
which  Barnaby  had  led  him,  and  putting  his  hat  and  stick  upon 
the  red-tiled  floor.  “  May  neither  you  nor  your  son  ever  learn 
under  them.  They  are  rough  masters.” 

“  You  have  wandered  from  the  road,  too,”  said  the  widow,  in 
a  tone  of  pity. 

“  Maybe,  maybe,”  returned  the  blind  man  with  a  sigh,  and 
yet  with  something  of  a  smile  upon  his  face,  “  that’s  likely. 
Handposts  and  milestones  are  dumb,  indeed,  to  me.  Thank 
you  the  more  for  this  rest,  and  this  refreshing  drink  !  ” 

46  I  go  home  when  I  had  done  ?  And  oh,  my  God  ! 

how  long  it  took  to  do !  Did  I  stand  before  my  wife, 
and  tell  her  ?  Did  I  see  her  fall  upon  the  ground  ;  and,  when 
I  stooped  to  raise  her,  did  she  thrust  me  back  with  a  force  that 
cast  me  off  as  if  I  had  been  a  child,  staining  the  hand  with 
which  she  clasped  my  wrist.  Is  that  fancy  ? 

“  Did  she  go  down  upon  her  knees,  and  call  on  Heaven  to 
witness  that  she  and  her  unborn  child  renounced  me  from  that 
hour ;  and  did  she,  in  words  so  solemn  that  they  turned  me 
cold — me,  fresh  from  the  horrors  my  own  hands  had  made — 
warn  me  to  fly  while  there  was  time ;  for  though  she  would  be 
silent,  being  my  wretched  wife,  she  would  not  shelter  me  ? 
Did  I  go  forth  that  night,  abjured  of  God  and  man,  and  an¬ 
chored  deep  in  hell,  to  wander  at  my  cable’s  length  about  the 
earth,  and  surely  to  be  drawn  down  at  last  ?  ” 

“  Why  did  you  return  ?  ”  said  the  blind  man. 

“Why  is  blood  red?  I  could  no  more  help  it,  than  I  could 
live  without  breath.  I  struggled  against  the  impulse,  but  I  was 
’  drawn  back,  through  every  difficult  and  adverse  circumstance, 
as  by  a  mighty  engine.  Nothing  could  stop  me.  The  day  and 
hour  were  none  of  my  choice.  Sleeping  and  waking,  I  had 
been  among  the  old  haunts  for  years — had  visited  my  own 
grave.  Why  did  I  come  back  ?  Because  this  jail  was  gaping 
for  me,  and  he  stood  beckoning  at  the  door.” 

11* 


250 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  You  were  not  known  ?  ”  said  the  blind  man. 

“  I  was  a  man  who  had  been  twenty-two  years  dead.  No. 
I  was  not  known.” 

“  You  should  have  kept  your  secret  better.” 

“ My  secret?  Mine ?  It  was  a  secret,  any  breath  of  air 
could  whisper  at  his  will.  The  stars  had  it  in  their  twinkling, 
the  water  in  its  flowing,  the  leaves  in  their  rustling,  the  seasons 
in  their  return.  It  lurked  in  strangers’  faces,  and  their  voices. 
Everything  had  lips  on  which  it  always  trembled — My  secret !  ” 

“  It  was  revealed  by  your  own  act,  at  any  rate,”  said  the 
blind  man. 

“  The  act  was  not  mine.  I  did  it,  but  it  was  not  mine.  I 
was  forced  at  times  to  wander  round,  and  round,  and  round 
that  spot.  If  you  had  chained  me  up  when  the  fit  was  on  me, 
I  should  have  broken  away,  and  gone  there.  As  truly  as  the 
loadstone  draws  iron  towards  it,  so  he,  lying  at  the  bottom  of 
his  grave,  could  draw  me  near  him  when  he  would.  Was  that 
fancy  ?  Did  I  like  to  go  there,  or  did  I  strive  and  wrestle  with 
the  power  that  forced  me?” 


"'■*  T  ~\  ON’T  you  think,”  whimpered  Dennis,  creeping  up  to 

JL/  him,  as  he  stood  with  his  feet  rooted  to  the  ground, 
gazing  at  the  blank  walls — “  don’t  you  think  there’s  still  a 
chance  ?  It’s  a  dreadful  end;  it’s  a  terrible  end  for  a  man  like 
me.  Don’t  you  think  there’s  a  chance?  I  don’t  mean  for 
you,  I  mean  for  me.  Don’t  let  him  hear  us”  (meaning  Hugh) ; 
“lie’s  so  desperate.” 

“  Now,  then,”  said  the  officer,  who  had  been  lounging  in  and 
out  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  yawning  as  if  he  were  in 
the  last  extremity  for  some  subject  of  interest:  “it’s  time  to 
turn  in,  boys.” 

“  Not  yet,”  cried  Dennis,  “  not  yet.  Not  for  an  hour  yet.” 

“  I  say, — your  watch  goes  different  from  what  it  used  to,” 
returned  the  man.  “  Once  upon  a  time  it  was  always  too  fast. 
It’s  got  the  other  fault  now.” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


251 


“  My  friend,”  cried  the  wretched  creature,  falling  on  his 
knees,  “  my  dear  friend — you  always  were  my  dear  friend — - 
there’s  some  mistake.  Some  letter  has  been  mislaid,  or  some 
messenger  has  been  stopped  upon  the  way.  He  may  have 
fallen  dead.  I  saw  a  man  once  fail  down  dead  in  the  street, 
myself,  and  he  had  papers  in  his  pocket.  Send  to  inquire. 
Let  somebody  go  to  inquire.  They  never  will  hang  me.  They 
never  can.  Yes,  they  will/’  he  cried,  starting  to  his  feet  with  a 
terrible  scream.  “  They’ll  hang  me  by  a  trick,  and  keep  the 
pardon  back.  It’s  a  plot  against  me.  I  shall  lose  my  life  !” 
And  uttering  another  yell,  he  fell  in  a  fit  upon  the  ground. 

“  See  the  hangman  when  it  comes  home  to  him !  ”  cried 
Hugh  again,  as  they  bore  him  away — “  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Courage, 
bold  Barnaby,  what  care  we  ?  Your  hand  !  They  do  well  to 
put  us  out  of  the  world,  for  if  we  got  loose  a  second  time,  we 
wouldn’t  let  them  off  so  easy,  eh  ?  Another  shake  !  A  man 
can  die  but  once.  If  you  wake  in  the  night,  sing  that  out 
lustily,  and  fall  asleep  again.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  ” 

Barnaby  glanced  once  more  through  the  grate  into  the  empty 
yard  ;  and  then  watched  Hugh  as  he  strode  to  the  steps  lead¬ 
ing  to  his  sleeping-cell.  He  heard  him  shout  and  burst  into  a 
roar  of  laughter,  and  saw  him  flourish  his  hat.  Then  he  turned 
away  himself,  like  one  who  walked  in  his  sleep ;  and,  without 
any  sense  of  fear  or  sorrow,  lay  down  on  his  pallet,  listening  for 
the  clock  to  strike  again. 

'  j  ''WO  cripples — both  mere  boys — one  with  a  leg  of  wood, 
JL  one  who  dragged  His  twisted  limbs  along  by  the  help  of  a 
crutch,  were  hanged  in  this  same  Bloomsbury  Square.  As  the 
cart  was  about  to  glide  from  under  them,  it  was  observed  that 
they  stood  with  their  faces  from,  not  to,  the  house  they  had 
assisted  to  despoil ;  and  their  misery  was  protracted  that  this 
omission  might  be  remedied.  Another  boy  was  hanged  in  Bow 
Street ;  other  young  lads  in  various  quarters  of  the  town.  Four 
wretched  women,  too,  were  put  to  death.  In  a  word,  those 
who  suffered  as  rioters  were,  for  the  most  part,  the  weakest, 


252  BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS , 

meanest,  and  most  miserable  among  them.  It  was  an  exquis¬ 
ite  satire  upon  the  false  religious  cry  which  had  led  to  so  much 
misery,  that  some  of  these  people  owned  themselves  to  be 
Catholics,  and  begged  to  be  attended  by  their  own  priests. 

One  young  man  was  hanged  in  Bishopsgate  Street,  whose  aged 
gray-headed  father  waited  for  him  at  the  gallows,  kissed  him  at 
its  foot  when  he  arrived,  and  sat  there  on  the  ground,  until 
they  took  him  down.  They  would  have  given  him  the  body  of 
his  child ;  but  he  had  no  hearse,  no  coffin,  nothing  to  remove 
it  in,  being  too  poor — and  walked  meekly  away  beside  the  cart 
that  took  it  back  to  prison,  trying  as  he  went  to  touch  its  life¬ 
less  hand. 

But  the  crowd  had  forgotten  these  matters,  or  cared  little 
about  them  if  they  live'd  in  their  memory  ;  and  while  one  great 
multitude  fought  and  hustled  to  get  near  the  gibbet  before 
Newgate,  for  a  parting  look,  another  followed  in  the  train  of 
poor  lost  Barnaby,  to  swell  the  throng  that  waited  for  him  on 
the  spot. 


FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

66  TV  T  OW,  really,  Fanny,  my  dear,”  said  the  sister-in-law,  al- 
jL  \l  tering  her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  and 
more  earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  “  I  shall  have  to  be  quite 
cross  with  you,  if  you  don’t  rouse  yourself.  It’s  necessary  for 
you  to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a  very  great  and  painful 
effort,  which  you  are  not  disposed  to  make  ;  but  this  is  a  world 
of  effort,  you  know,  Fanny,  and  we  must  never  yield,  when  so 
much  depends  upon  us.  Come  !  Try  !  I  must  really  scold 
you  if  you  don’t !  ” 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  furious.  The 
watches  seemed  to  jostle  and  to  trip  each  other  up. 

“  Fanny  !  ”  said  Louisa,  glancing  round  with  a  gathering 
alarm.  “  Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes,  to  show  me 


LIFE’S  SHADOW'S. 


253 


that  you  hear  and  understand  me  ;  will  you  ?  Good  Heaven, 
gentlemen,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  ” 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a  look  across  the 
bed ;  and  the  physician,  stooping  down,  whispered  in  the 
child’s  ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport  of  his  whisper, 
the  little  creature  turned  her  perfectly  colorless  face  and  deep, 
dark  eyes  towards  him,  but  without  loosening  her  hold  in  the 
least. 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 

“  Mamma  !  ”  said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  loved,  awakened  some 
show  of  consciousness,  even  at  that  ebb.  For  a  moment  the 
closed  eyelids  trembled,  and  the  nostril  quivered,  and  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  was  seen. 

“Mamma!”  cried  the  child,  sobbing  aloud.  “Oh  dear 
mamma  !  oh  dear  mamma  !  ” 

The  Doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ringlets  of  the  child 
aside  from  the  face  and  mouth  of  the  mother.  Alas  !  how 
calm  they  lay  there ;  how  little  breath  there  was  to  stir  them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her  arms,  the 
mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  unknown  sea  that  rolls 
round  all  the  world. 

THAT  small  world,  like  the  great  one  out  of  doors,  had  the 
capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its  dead  ;  and  when  the 
cook  had  said  she  was  a  quiet-tempered  lady,  and  the  house¬ 
keeper  had  said  it  was  the  common  lot,  and  the  butler  had  said 
who’d  have  thought  it,  and  the  housemaid  had  said  she  couldn’t 
hardly  believe  it,  and  the  footman  had  said  it  seemed  exactly 
like  a  dream,  they  had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  began 
to  think  their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

u  O  HE’LL  be  quite  happy,  now  she  has  come  home  again,” 
said  Polly,  nodding  to  her  with  an  encouraging  smile 
upon  her  wholesome  face,  “  and  will  be  so  pleased  to  see  her 
dear  papa  to-night.” 


254 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards  !  ”  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking  up  her 
words  with  a  jerk.  “  Don’t.  See  her  dear  papa  indeed  !  I 
should  like  to  see  her  do  it  !  ” 

“  Won’t  she,  then  ?”  asked  Polly. 

“  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no  !  Her  pa’s  a  deal  too  wrapped 
up  in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a  somebody  else  to 
be  wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a  favorite.  Girls  are  thrown 
away  in  this  house,  Mrs.  Richards,  /assure  you.” 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other,  as  if 
she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 

WHEN  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr. 

Dombey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  .and  down,  and 
looked  towards  her.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest,  and 
with  a  father’s  eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen  glance  the 
impulses  and  fears  that  made  her  waver ;  the  passionate  desire 
to  run  clinging  to  him,  crying,  as  she  hid  her  face  in  his  em¬ 
brace,  “  Oh  father,  try  to  love  me  !  there’s  no  one  else  !”  the 
dread  of  a  repulse  ;  the  fear  of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offend¬ 
ing  him ;  the  pitiable  need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assur¬ 
ance  and  encouragement ;  and  how  her  overcharged  young 
heart  was  wandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place  for  its 
sorrow  and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  irresolutely 
at  the  door,  and  look  towards  him ;  and  he  saw  no  more. 

“  Come  in,”  he  said,  “  come  in  ;  what  is  the  child  afraid  of?” 
She  came  in  ;  and  after  glancing  round  for  a  moment  with 
an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small  hands  hard  together, 
close  within  the  door. 

“Come  here,  Florence,”  said  her  father,  coldly.  “  Do  you 
know  who  I  am  ?  ” 

“Yes,  papa.” 

“  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  ” 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes,  as  she  raised  them  quickly 
to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it  wore.  She 
looked  down  again,,  and  put  out  her  trembling  hand. 


liff:s  shadows. 


255 


Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  knew  as  little  as  the 
child  what  to  say  or  do. 

“  There  !  Be  a  good  girl,”  he  said,  patting  her  on  the  head, 
and  regarding  her,  as  it  were,  by  stealth,  with  a  disturbed  and 
doubtful  look.  “  Go  to  Richards  !  Go  !  ”  „ 

His  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant,  as  though 
she  would  have  clung  about  him  still,  or  had  some  lingering 
hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms,  and  kiss  her.  She 
looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He  thought  how  like  her 
expression  was  then  to  what  it  had  been  when  she  looked 
round  at  the  Doctor,  that  night,  and  instinctively  dropped  her 
hand,  and  turned  away. 

HE  atmosphere  became,  or  might  have  become,  colder 


and  colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  frigidly  watching 
his  little  daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands,  and  standing  on 
tiptoe  before  the  throne  of  his  son  and  heir,  lured  him  to  bend 
down  from  his  high  estate,  and  look  at  her.  Some  honest  act 
of  Richards’s  may  have  aided  the  effect,  but  he  did  look  down, 
and  held  his  peace.  As  his  sister  hid  behind  her  nurse,  he 
followed  her  with  his  eyes ;  and  when  she  peeped  out  with  a 
merry  cry  to  him,  he  sprang  up  and  crowed  lustily — laughing 
outright  when  she  ran  in  upon  him ;  and  seeming  to  fondle  her 
curls  with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she  smothered  him  with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this  ?  He  testified  no 
pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a  nerve ;  but  outward  tokens  of 
any  kind  of  feeling  were  unusual  with  him.  If  any  sunbeam 
stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children  at  their  play,  it  never 
reached  his  face.  He  looked  on  so  fixedly  and  coldly,  that  the 
warm  light  vanished  even  from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little  Flor¬ 
ence,  when  at  last  they  happened  to  meet  his. 

r  |^HERE  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dom- 

X  bey’s  house  to-night,  than  there  has  been  for  many 
nights.  The  morning  sun  awakens  the  old  household,  settled 


256 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


down  once  more  in  their  old  ways.  The  rosy  children  opposite 
run  past  with  hoops.  There  is  a  splendid  wedding  in  the 
church.  The  juggler’s  wife  is  active  with  the  money-box  in 
another  quarter  of  the  town.  The  mason  sings  and  whistles 
as  he  chips  out  p-a-u-l  in  the  marble  slab  before  him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a  world  so  full  and  busy,  the  loss  of 
one  weak  creature  makes  a  void  in  any  heart,  so  wide  and 
deep  that  nothing  but  the  width  and  depth  of  vast  eternity  can 
fill  it  up  !  Florence,  in  her  innocent  affliction,  might  have 
answered,  “  Oh  my  brother,  oh  my  dearly  loved  and  loving 
brother !  Only  friend  and  companion  of  my  slighted  child¬ 
hood  !  Could  any  less  idea  shed  the  light  already  dawning  on 
your  early  grave,  or  give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow  that  is 
springing  into  life  beneath  this  reign  of  tears  !  ” 

WHEN  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own 
room,  and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  the  staircase,  and  ap¬ 
proach  her  father’s  door.  Against  it,  scarcely  breathing,  she 
would  rest  her  face  and  head,  and  press  her  lips,  in  the  yearn¬ 
ing  of  her  love.  She  crouched  upon  the  cold  stone  floor  out¬ 
side  it,  every  night,  to  listen  even  for  his  breath  ;  and  in  her 
one  absorbing  wish  to  be  allowed  to  show  him  some  affection, 
to  be  a  consolation  to  him,  to  win  him  over  to  the  endurance 
of  some  tenderness  from  her,  his  solitary  child,  she  would  have 
knelt  down  at  his  feet,  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  supplication. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door  was 
ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out  once  or  twice, 
and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was  very  soon  going  on 
his  country  journey;  but  he  lived  in  those  rooms,  and  lived 
alone,  and  never  saw  her,  or  inquired  for  her.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  even  know  that  she  was  in  the  house. 

SO  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a  home,  within  the 
circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and  nothing 
harmed  her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father’s  rooms  now, 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


257 


and  think  of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart  humbly  to  ap¬ 
proach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse.  She  could  look  upon  the 
objects  that  had  surrounded  him  in  his  sorrow,  and  could  nes¬ 
tle  near  his  chair,  and  not  dread  the  glance  that  she  so  well 
remembered.  She  could  render  him  such  little  tokens  of  her 
duty  and  service,  as  putting  everything  in  order  for  him  with 
her  own  hands,  binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  changing 
them  as  one  by  one  they  withered,  and  he  did  not  come  back, 
preparing  something  for  him  every  day,  and  leaving  some  timid 
mark  of  her  presence  near  his  usual  seat.  To-day,  it  was  a  lit¬ 
tle  painted  stand  for  his  watch  ;  to-morrow  she  would  be  afraid 
to  leave  it,  and  would  substitute  some  other  trifle  of  her  making 
not  so  likely  to  attract  his  eye.  Waking  in  the  night,  perhaps, 
she  would  tremble  at  the  thought  of  his  coming  home,  and  an¬ 
grily  rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down  with  slippered  feet  and 
quickly  beating  heart,  and  bring  it  away.  At  another  time,  she 
would  only  lay  her  face  upon  his  desk,  and  leave  a  kiss  there, 
and  a  tear. 

AND  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fall  ill, 
if  she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he  then 
know  that  she  had  loved  him  ;  would  she  then  grow  dear  to 
him,  would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when  she  was  weak  and 
dim  of  sight,  and  take  her  into  his  embrace,  and  cancel  all  the 
past?  Would  he  so  forgive  her,  in  that  changed  condition,  for 
not  having  been  able  to  lay  open  her  childish  heart  to  him,  as 
to  make  it  easy  to  relate  with  what  emotions  she  had  gone  out 
of  his  room  that  night  ;  what  she  had  meant  to  say  if  she  had 
had  the  courage  :  and  how  she  had  endeavored,  afterwards,  to 
learn  the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy  ? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  she  were  dying,  he  would  relent.  She 
thought,  that  if  she  lay,  serene  and  not  unwilling  to  depart, 
upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with  recollections  of 
their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched  home,  and  would  say, 
“  Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and  we  will  love  each  other  as 


258 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


we  might  have  done,  and  be  as  happy  as  we  might  have  been 
these  many  years  !  ”  She  thought  that  if  she  heard  such  words 
from  him,  and  had  her  arms  clasped  round  him,  she  could  an¬ 
swer  with  a  smile,  “  It  is  too  late  for  anything  but  this  :  I  never 
could  be  happier,  dear  father  !  ”  and  so  leave  him,  with  a  bless¬ 
ing  on  her  lips. 

F  FLORENCE  had  a  new  reason  in  all  this  for  wishing  to  be 
at  home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  better  suited  to  her 
course  of  timid  hope  and  doubt :  and  she  feared  sometimes, 
that  in  her  absence  she  might  miss  some  hopeful  chance  of  tes¬ 
tifying  her  affection  to  her  father.  Eleaven  knows,  she  might 
have  set  her  mind  at  rest,  poor  child  !  on  this  last  point ;  but 
her  slighted  love  was  fluttering  within  her,  and,  even  in  her 
sleep,  it  flew  away  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a  wandering  bird 
come  home,  upon  her  father’s  neck. 

HEN  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the  Cap¬ 


tain  trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles — he 


had  felt  it  appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering  into 
the  Instrument  Trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a  hawk’s — 
and  opened  the  prayer-book  at  the  Burial  Service.  And  read¬ 
ing  softly  to  himself,  in  the  little  back  parlor,  and  stopping  now 
and  then  to  wipe  his  eyes,  the  Captain,  in  a  true  and  simple 
spirit,  committed  Walter’s  body  to  the  deep. 

I^LORENCE,  being  in  an  arbor  in  the  garden  one  warm 
morning,  musingly  observant  of  a  youthful  group  upon 
the  turf,  through  some  intervening  boughs,  and  wreathing  flow¬ 
ers  for  the  head  of  one  little  creature  among  them  who  was  the 
pet  and  plaything  of  the  rest,  heard  the  same  lady  and  her 
niece,  in  pacing  up  and  down  a  sheltered  nook  close  by,  speak 
of  herself. 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


259 


“Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me  ?”  said  the  child. 

“No,  my  love.  She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father  is  living.” 

“  Is  she  in  mourning  for  her  poor  mamma,  now  ?  ”  inquired 
the  child  quickly. 

“No;  for  her  only  brother.” 

“  bias  she  no  other  brother?” 

“None.” 

u  No  sister?  ” 

“  None.” 

“  I  am  very,  very  sorry  !  ”  said  the  little  girl. 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterwards  to  watch  some  boats,  and 
had  been  silent  in  the  meantime,  Florence,  who  had  arisen 
when  she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up  her  flowers  to 
go  and  meet  them  that  they  might  know  of  her  being  within 
hearing,  resumed  her  seat  and  work,  expecting  to  hear  no 
more  ;  but  the  conversation  recommenced  next  moment. 

“  Florence  is  a  favorite  with  every  one  here,  and  deserves  to 
be,  I  am  sure,”  said  the  child,  earnestly.  “Where  is  her 
papa  ? ” 

.The  aunt  replied,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  that  she  did  not 
know.  ,  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence,  who  had  started 
from  her  seat  again,  and  held  her  fastened  to  the  spot,  with 
her  work  hastily  caught  up  to  her  bosom,  and  her  two  hands 
saving  it  from  being  scattered  on  the  ground. 

“  He  is  in  England,  I  hope,  aunt  ?  ”  said  the  child. 

“  I  believe  so.  Yes  ;  I  know  he  is,  indeed.” 

“  Has  he  ever  been  here?  ” 

“  I  believe  not.  No.” 

“  Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her  ?  ” 

“  I  believe  not.” 

“Is  he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt?”  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began  to  fall 
when  she  heard  those  words,  so  wonderingly  spoken.  She  held 
them  closer ;  and  her  face  hung  down  upon  them. 

“Kate,”  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  of  silence,  “I 
will  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  Florence  as  I  have  heard  it, 


260 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else,  my  dear,  because  it 
may  be  little  known  here,  and  your  doing  so  would  give  her 
pain.” 

“  I  never  will !  ”  exclaimed  the  child. 

“  I  know  you  never  will,”  returned  the  lady.  “  I  can  trust 
you  as  myself.  I  fear  then,  Kate,  that  Florence’s  father  cares 
little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  never  was  kind  to  her  in 
her  life,  and  now  quite  shuns  her  and  avoids  her.  She  would 
love  him  dearly  if  he  would  suffer  her,  but  he  will  not — though 
for  no  fault  of  hers ;  and  she  is  greatly  to  be  loved  and  pitied 
by  all  gentle  hearts.” 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held  fell  scattering  on  the 
ground ;  those  that  remained  were  wet,  but  not  with  dew ;  and 
her  face  dropped  upon  her  laden  hands. 

“Poor  Florence  !  Dear,  good  Florence  !”  cried  the  child. 

“Do  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this,  Kate?”  said  the 
lady. 

“That  I  may  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care  to  try 
to  please  her.  Is  that  the  reason,  aunt?  ” 

“Partly,”  said  the  lady,  “but  not  all.  Though  we  see  her 
so  cheerful,  with  a  pleasant  smile  for  every  one,  ready  to 
oblige  us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  in  every  amusement  here  : 
she  can  hardly  be  quite  happy;  do  you  think  she  can,  Kate  ?  ” 

“  I  am  afraid  not,”  said  the  little  girl. 

“And  you  can  understand,”  pursued  the  lady,  “why  her  ob¬ 
servation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are  fond  of  them, 
and  proud  of  them — like  many  here,  just  now — should  make 
her  sorrowful  in  secret  ?  ” 

“Yes,  dear  aunt,”  said  the  child,  “  I  understand  that  very 
well.  Poor  Florence  !  ” 

More  flowers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she  yet 
held  to  her  breast  trembled,  as  if  a  wintry  wind  were  rustling 
them. 

“  My  Kate,”  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  serious,  but  very 
calm  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence  from  the  first 
moment  of  her  hearing  it,  “  of  all  the  youthful  people  here,  you 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


261 


are  her  natural  and  harmless  friend  ;  you  have  not  the  innocent 
means,  that  happier  children  have — ” 

•  “  There  are  none  happier,  aunt !  ”  exclaimed  the  child,  who 
seemed  to  cling  about  her. 

— “  As  other  children  have,  dear  Kate,  of  reminding  her  of 
her  misfortune.  Therefore  I  would  have  you,  when  you  try  to 
be  her  little  friend,  try  all  the  more  for  that,  and  feel  that  the 
bereavement  you  sustained — thank  Heaven  !  before  you  knew 
its  weight — gives  you  claim  and  hold  upon  poor  Florence.” 

“  But  I  am  not  without  a  parent’s  love,  aunt,  and  I  never 
have  been,”  said  the  child,  “  with  you.” 

“  However  that  may  be,  my  dear,”  returned  the  lady,  “  your 
, misfortune  is  a  lighter  one  than  Florence’s  ;  for  not  an  orphan 
in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as  the  child  who  is  an 
outcast  from  a  living  parent’s  love.” 

The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dust ;  the 
empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face  ;  and  orphaned  Flor¬ 
ence,  shrinking  down  upon  the  ground,  wept  long  and  bitterly. 

^  T  FEEL  no  tenderness  towards  you  ;  that  you  know.  You 

1  would  care  nothing  for  it,  if  I  did  or  could.  I  know  as 
well  that  you  feel  none  towards  me.  But  we  are  linked  to¬ 
gether  ;  and  in  the  knot  that  ties  us,  as  I  have  said,  others  are 
bound  up.  We  must  both  die ;  we  are  both  connected  with 
the"  dead  already,  each  by  a  little  child.  Let  us  forbear.” 

Mr.  Dombey  took  a  long  respiration,  as  if  he  would  have 
said,  Oh  !  was  this  all ! 

“  There  is  no  wealth,”  she  went  on,  turning  paler  as  she 
watched  him,  while  her  eyes  grew  yet  more  lustrous  in  their 
earnestness,  “that  could  buy  these  words  of  me,  and  the  mean¬ 
ing  that  belongs  to  them.  Once  cast  away  as  idle  breath,  no 
wealth  or  power  can  bring  them  back.  I  mean  them  ;  I  have 
weighed  them  ;  and  I  will  be  true  to  what  I  undertake.  If 
you  will  promise  to  forbear  on  your  part,  I  will  promise  to  for¬ 
bear  on  mine.  We  are  a  most  unhappy  pair,  in  whom,  from 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


262 


different  causes,  every  sentiment  that  blesses  marriage,  or  jus¬ 
tifies  it,  is  rooted  out ;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  some  friend¬ 
ship,  or  some  fitness  for  each  other,  may  arise  between  us.  I 
will  try  to  hope  so,  if  you  will  make  the  endeavor  too  ;  and  I 
will  look  forward  to  a  better  and  a  happier  use  of  age  than  I 
have  made  of  youth  or  prime.” 


^  I  "'HE  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  wife  was  not 
X  weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted  couple,  unhappy  in 
themselves  and  in  each  other,  bound  together  by  no  tie  but 
the  manacle  that  joined  their  fettered  hands,  and  straining  that 
so  harshly,  in  their  shrinking  asunder,  that  it  wore  and  chafed 
to  the  bone,  Time,  consoler  of  affliction  and  softener  of  anger, 
could  do  nothing  to  help  them.  Their  pride,  however  different 
in  kind  and  object,  was  equal  in  degree ;  and,  in  their  flinty 
opposition,  struck  out  fire  between  them  which  might  smoulder 
or  might  blaze,  as  circumstances  were*  but  burned  up  every¬ 
thing  within  their  mutual  reach,  and  made  their  marriage-way 
a  road  of  ashes. 


IELDING  at  once  to  the  impulse  of  her  affection,  timid 


X  at  all  other  times,  but  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  in  his  ad¬ 
versity,  and  undaunted  by  past  repulse,  Florence,  dressed  as 
she  was,  hurried  downstairs.  As  she  set  her  light  foot  in  the 
hall,  he  came  out  of  his  room.  She  hastened  toward  him  un¬ 
checked,  with  her  arms  stretched  out,  and  crying  “  Oh  dear, 
dear  papa  !  ”  as  if  she  would  have  clasped  him  round  the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done.  But  in  his  frenzy,  he  lifted 
up  his  cruel  arm,  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with  that  heaviness, 
that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor :  and  as  he  dealt  the 
blow,  he  told  her  what  Edith  was,  and  bade  her  follow  her, 
since  they  had  always  been  in  league. 

She  did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet ;  she  did  not  shut  out  the 


LIFE’S  SHADOWS. 


263 


sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands  ;  she  did  not  weep  ;  she 
did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But  she  looked  at  him, 
and  a  cry  of  desolation  issued  from  her  heart.  For,  as  she 
looked,  she  saw  him  murdering  that  fond  idea  to  which  she  had 
held  in  spite  of  him.  She  saw  his  cruelty,  neglect,  and  hatred 
dominant  above  it,  and  stamping  it  down.  She  saw  she  had 
no  father  upon  earth,  and  ran  out,  orphaned,  from  his  house. 


A  MOMENT  yet.  Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  you 
read  I  may  see  the  words  in  your  kind  face.” 

Harriet  complied  and  read — read  the  eternal  book  for  all 
the  weary  and  the  heavy-laden  ;  for  all  the  wretched,  fallen,  and 
neglected  of  this  earth — read  the  blessed  history,  in  which  the 
blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the  criminal,  the  woman  stained  with 
shame,  the  shunned  of  all  our  dainty  clay,  has  each  a  portion, 
that  no  human  pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry,  through  all  the 
.  ages  that  this  world  shall  last,  can  take  away,  or  by  the  thou¬ 
sandth  atom  of  a  grain  reduce — read  the  ministry  of  Him  who, 
through  the  round  of  human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and  griefs, 
from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy  to  age,  had  sweet  compassion 
for,  and  interest  in,  its  every  scene  and  stage,  its  every  suffer¬ 
ing  and  sorrow. 

“I  shall  come,”  said  Harriet,  when  she  shut  the  book,  “very 
early  in  the  morning.” 

The  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for  a  mo¬ 
ment,  then  opened  ;  and  Alice  kissed  and  blessed  her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door  ;  and  in  their  light, 
and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a  smile  when  it  was  closed. 

They  never  turned  away.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
breast,  murmuring  the  sacred  name  that  had  been  read  to  her ; 
and  life  passed  from  her  face,  like  light  removed. 

Nothing  lay  there  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  the  mortal 
house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  the  black  hair  that 
had  buttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


264 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


E  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For  the 


X  X  night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow’s  sun  ; 
for  the  stain  of  his  domestic  shame  there  was  no  purification ; 
nothing,  thank  Heaven,  could  bring  his  dead  child  back  to  life. 
But  that  which  he  might  have  made  so  different  in  all  the  Past 
— which  might  have  made  the  Past  itself  so  different,  though 
this  he  hardly  thought  of  now — that  which  was  his  own  work, 
that  which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a  blessing,  and 
had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a  curse — that 
was  the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 

Oh !  He  did  remember  it !  The  rain  that  fell  upon  the 
roof,  the  wind  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that  night,  had 
had  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound.  He  knew, 
now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that  he  had  called 
down  that  upon  his  head  which  bowed  it  lower  than  the  heavi¬ 
est  stroke  of  fortune.  He  knew,  now,  what  it  was  to  be  re¬ 
jected  and  deserted  ;  now,  when  every  loving  blossom  he  had 
withered  in  his  innocent  daughter’s  heart  was  snowing  down  in 
ashes  on  him. 


FROM  OLIVER  TWIST. 


HEN  come  with  me,”  said  Mrs.  Sowerberry,  taking 


up  a  dim  and  dirty  lamp,  and  leading  the  way  upstairs  ; 


“your  bed’s  under  the  counter.  You  don’t  mind  sleeping 
among  the  coffins,  I  suppose  ?  But  it  doesn’t  much  matter 
whether  you  do  or  don’t,  for'  you  can’t  sleep  anywhere  else. 
Come,  don’t  keep  me  here  all  night !  ” 

Oliver  lingered  no  longer,  but  meekly  followed  his  new' 
mistress. 

OLIVER  being  left  to  himself  in  the  undertaker’s  shop,  set 
the  lamp  down  on  a  workman’s  bench,  and  gazed  tim¬ 
idly  about  him  with  a  feeling  of  awe  and  dread,  which  many 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


265 


people  a  good  deal  older  than  he  will  be  at  no  loss  to  under¬ 
stand.  An  unfinished  coffin  on  black  trestles,  which  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  shop,  looked  so  gloomy  and  death-like,  that  a 
cold  tremble  came  over  him  every  time  his  eyes  wandered  in 
the  direction  of  the  dismal  object;  from  which  he  almost  ex¬ 
pected  to  see  some  frightful  form  slowly  rear  its  head,  to  drive 
him  mad  with  terror.  Against  the  wall  were  ranged,  in  regular 
array,  a  long  row  of  elm  boards  cut  into  the  same  shape  ; 
looking  in  the  dim  light,  like  high- shouldered  ghosts  with  their 
hands  in  their  breeches-pockets.  Coffin-plates,  elm-chips, 
bright-headed  nails,  and  shreds  of  black  cloth  lay  scattered  on 
the  floor ;  and  the  wall  behind  the  counter  was  ornamented 
with  a  lively  representation  of  two  mutes  in  very  stiff  neck¬ 
cloths,  on  duty  at  a  large  private  door,  with  a  hearse  drawn  by 
four  black  steeds  approaching  in  the  distance.  The  shop  was 
close  and  hot ;  and  the  atmosphere  seemed  tainted  with  the 
smell  of  coffins.  The  recess  beneath  the  counter  in  which  his 
flock  mattress  was  thrust,  looked  like  a  grave. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  dismal  feelings  which  depressed 
Oliver.  He  was  alone  in  a  strange  place ;  and  we  all  know 
how  chilled  and  desolate  the  best  of  us  will  sometimes  feel  in 
such  a  situation.  ^  The  boy  had  no  friends  to  care  for,  or  to 
care  for  him.  The  regret  of  no  recent  separation  was  fresh  in 
his  mind  ;  the  absence  of  no  loved  and  well-remembered  face 
sunk  heavily  into  his  heart.  But  his  heart  was  heavy,  not¬ 
withstanding  ;  and  he  wished,  as  he  crept  into  his  narrow  bed, 
that  that  were  his  coffin ;  and  that  he  could  be  laid  in  a  calm 
and  lasting  sleep  in  the  churchyard  ground,  with  the  tall  grass 
waving  gently  above  his  head,  and  the  sound  of  the  old  deep 
bell  to  soothe  him  in  his  sleep. 

44  T  S  Oliver  abed?  I  want  to  speak  to  him,”  was  his  first 

X  remark  as  they  descended  the  stairs. 

“  Hours  ago,”  replied  the  Dodger,  throwing  open  a  door. 
“  Here  he  is  !  ’ 

12 


266 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


The  boy  was  lying,  fast  asleep,  on  a  rude  bed  upon  the 
floor ;  so  pale  with  anxiety,  and  sadness,  and  the  closeness  of 
his  prison,  that  he  looked  like  death ;  not  death  as  it  shows  in 
shroud  and  coffin,  but  in  the  guise  it  wears  when  life  has  just 
departed ;  when  a  young  and  gentle  spirit  has,  but  an  instant, 
fled  to  heaven,  and  the  gross  air  of  the  world  has  not  had  time 
to  breathe  upon  the  changing  dust  it  hallowed. 

“  Not  now,”  said  the  Jew,  turning  softly  away.  “  To¬ 
morrow.  To-morrow\” 

^AA/HAT’S  the  matter  with  you,  parochial  Dick?”  in- 
V  V  quired  Mr.  Bumble  with  well-timed  jocularity. 

“  Nothing,  sir,”  replied  the  child  faintly. 

“  I  should  think  not,”  said  Mrs.  Mann,  who  had  of  course 
laughed  very  much  at  Mr.  Bumble’s  humor.  “You  want  for 
nothing,  I’m  sure.” 

“  I  should  like — ”  faltered  the  child. 

“Hey-day!”  interposed  Mrs.  Mann,  “I  suppose  you’re 
going  to  say  that  you  do  want  for  something,  now  ?  Why,  you 
little  wretch — ” 

“  Stop,  Mrs.  Mann,  stop !  ”  said  the  beadle,  raising  his  hand 
with  a  show  of  authority.  “  Like  what,  sir  ;  eh  ?  ” 

“I  should  like,”  faltered  the  child,  “if  somebody  that  can 
write  would  put  a  few  words  down  for  me  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
and  fold  it  up  and  seal  it,  and  keep  it  for  me,  after  I  am  laid 
in  the  ground.” 

“  Why  what  does  the  boy  mean !  ”  exclaimed  Mr.  Bumble, 
on  whom  the  earnest  manner  and  wan  aspect  of  the  child  had 
made  some  impression,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  such  things. 
“What  do  you  mean,  sir?” 

“  I  should  like,”  said  the  child,  “  to  leave  my  dear  love  to 
poor  Oliver  Twist ;  and  to  let  him  know  how  often  I  have  sat 
by  myself  and  cried  to  think  of  his  wandering  about  in  the  dark 
nights  with  nobody  to  help  him.  And  I  should  like  to  tell 
him,”  said  the  child,  pressing  his  small  hands  together,  and 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


267 


speaking  with  great  fervor,  “  that  I  was  glad  to  die  when  I  was 
very  young ;  for,  perhaps,  if  I  had  lived  to  be  a  man,  and  had 
grown  old,  my  little  sister,  who  is  in  Heaven,  might  forget  me, 
or  be  unlike  me,  and  it  would  be  so  much  happier  if  we  were 
both  children  there  together.” 

\ 

THE  honest  gentleman  held  the  curtain  in  his  hand,  and 
looked  on  for  a  minute  or  so,  in  silence.  While  he  was 
watching  the  patient  thus,  the  younger  lady  glided  softly  past ; 
and  seating  herself  in  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  gathered  Oliver’s 
hair  from  his  face.  As  she  stooped  over  him  her  tears  fell 
upon  his  forehead. 

The  boy  stirred,  and  smiled  in  his  sleep,  as  though  these 
marks  of  pity  and  compassion  had  awakened  some  pleasant 
dream  of  love  and  affection  he  had  never  known.  Thus,  a 
strain  of  gentle  music,  or  the  rippling  of  water  in  a  silent  place, 
or  the  odor  of  a  flower,  or  even  the  mention  of  a  familiar  word, 
will  sometimes  call  up  sudden  dim  remembrances  of  scenes 
that  never  were,  in  this  life  ;  which  vanish  like  a  breath  ;  which 
some  brief  memory  of  a  happier  existence,  long  gone  by,  would 
seem  to  have  awakened ;  which  no  voluntary  exertion  of  the 
mind  can  ever  recall. 

“What  can  this  mean?”  exclaimed  the  elder  lady.  “This 
poor  child  can  never  have  been  the  pupil  of  robbers  !  ” 

“Vice,”  sighed  the  surgeon,  replacing  the  curtain,  “takes up 
her  abode  in  many  temples  ;  and  who  can  say  that  a  fair  out¬ 
side  shall  not  enshrine  her  ?” 

“  But  at  so  early  an  age  !  ”  urged  Rose. 

“My  dear  young  lady,”  rejoined  the  surgeon,  mournfully 
shaking  his  head ;  “  crime,  like  death,  is  not  confined  to  the  old 
and  withered  alone.  The  youngest  and  fairest  are  too  often  its  . 
chosen  victims.” 

“  But  can  you — oh  !  can  you  really  believe  that  this  delicate 
boy  has  been  the  voluntary  associate  of  the  worst  outcasts  of 
society  ?  ”  said  Rose. 


268 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


The  surgeon  shook  his  head,  in  a  manner  which  intimated  that 
he  feared  it  was  very  possible  ;  and  observing  that  they  might 
disturb  the  patient,  led  the  wviy  into  an  adjoining  apartment. 

“But  even  if  he  has  been  wicked,”' pursued  Rose,  “think 
how  young  he  is  ;  think  that  he  may  never  have  known  a 
mother’s  love,  or  the  comfort  of  a  home  ;  and  that  ill-usage  and 
blows,  or  the  want  of  bread,  may  have  driven  him  to  herd  with 
men  who  have  forced  him  to  guilt.  Aunt,  dear  aunt,  for 
mercy’s  sake,  think  of  this,  before  you  let  them  drag  this  sick 
child  to  a  prison,  which  in  any  case  must  be  the  grave  of  all 
his  chances  of  amendment.  Oh  !  as, you  love  me,  and  know 
that  I  have  never  felt  the  want  of  parents  in  your  goodness  and 
affection,  but  that  I  might  have  done  so,  and  might  have  been 
equally  helpless  and  unprotected  with  this  poor  child,  have  pity 
upon  him  before  it  is  too  late  !  ” 

ANOTHER  morning.  The  sun  shone  brightly;  as  brightly 
as  if  it  looked  upon  no  misery  or  care  ;  and,  with  every  leaf 
and  flower  in  full  bloom  about  her ;  with  life,  and  health,  and 
sounds  and  sights  of  joy,  surrounding  her  on  every  side— the 
fair  young  creature  lay,  wasting  fast.  Oliver  crept  away  to  the 
old  churchyard,  and  sitting  down  on  one  of  the  green  mounds, 
wept  and  prayed  for  her,  in  silence. 

There  was  such  peace  and  beauty  in  the  scene ;  so  much  of 
brightness  and  mirth  in  the  sunny  landscape ;  such  blithesome 
music  in  the  songs  of  the  summer  birds  ;  such  freedom  in  the 
rapid  flight  of  the  rook,  careering  overhead ;  so  much  of  life 
and  joyousness  in  all;  that,  when  the  boy  raised  his  aching 
eyes,  and  looked  about,  the  thought  instinctively  occurred  to 
him,  that  this  was  not  a  time  for  death  ;  that  Rose  could  surely 
never  die  when  humbler  things  were  all  so  glad  and  gay ;  that 
graves  were  for  cold  and  cheerless  winter,  not  for  sunlight  and 
fragrance.  He  almost  thought  that  shrouds  were  for  the  old 
and  shrunken,  and  that  they  never  wrapped  the  young  and 
graceful  form  within  their  ghastly  folds. 

A  knell  from  the  church-bell  broke  harshly  on  these  youth- 


269 


N  LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 

ful  thoughts.  Another !  Again  !  It  was  tolling  for  the  funeral 
service.  A  group  of  humble  mourners  entered  the  gate, 
wearing  white  favors,  for  the  corpse  was  young.  They  stood 
uncovered  by  a  grave ;  and  there  was  a  mother — a  mother 
once — among  the  weeping  train.  But  the  sun  shone  brightly, 
and  the  birds  sang  on. 

+ 

IN  a  paroxysm  of'  fear,  the  boy  closed  the  book,  and  thrust 
it  from  him.  Then,  falling  upon  his  knees,  he  prayed 
Heaven  to  spare  him  from  such  deeds ;  and  rather  to  will  that 
he  should  die  at  once,  than  be  reserved  for  crimes  so  fearful 
and  appalling.  By  degrees  he  grew  more  calm,  and  besought, 
in  a  low  and  broken  voice,  that  he  might  be  rescued  from  his 
present  dangers  ;  and  that  if  any  aid  could  be  raised  up  for  a 
poor  outcast  boy,  who  had  never  known  the  love  of  friends  or 
kindred,  it  might  come  to  him  now,  when,  desolate  and  de¬ 
serted,  he  stood  alone  in  the  midst  of  wickedness  and  guilt. 


FROM  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

JO  is  in  a  sleep  or  in  a  stupor  to-day,  and  Allan  Wood- 
court,  newly  arrived,  stands  by  him,  looking  down  upon 
his  wasted  form.  After  a  while  he  softly  seats  himself  upon 
the  bedside  with  his  face  towards  him — just  as  he  sat  in  the 
law-writer’s  room — and  touches  his  chest  and  heart.  The  cart 
had  very  nearly  given  up,  but  labors  on  a  little  more. 

The  trooper  stands  in  the  doorway,  still  and  silent.  Phil 
has  stopped  in  a  low,  clinking  noise,  with  his  little  hammer  in 
his  hand.  Mr.  W oodcourt  looks  round  with  that  grave  profes¬ 
sional  interest  and  attention  on  his  face,  and,  glancing  signifi¬ 
cantly  at  the  trooper,  signs  to  Phil  to  carry  his  table  out. 
When  the  little  hammer  is  next  used,  there  will  be  a  speck  of 
rust  upon  it. 


2  7° 


BRAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“Well,  Jo  !  What  is  the  matter?  Don’t  bo  frightened.” 

“  I  thought,”  says  Jo,  who  has  started,  and  is  looking  round, 
“I  thought  I  was  in  Tom-all-Alone’s  agin.  Ain’t  there  nobody 
here  but  you,  Mr.  Woodcot  ?  ” 

“  Nobody.” 

“  And  I  ain’t  took  back  to  Tom-all-Alone’s.  Am  I,  sir  ?  ” 

“  No.”  Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  “  I’m  wery  thankful.” 

After  watching  him  closely  a  little  while,  Allan  puts  his 
mouth  very  near  his  ear,  and  says  to  him  in  a  low,  distinct  voice : 

“  Jo  !  Did  you  ever  know  a  prayer  ?  ” 

“  Never  knowd  nothink,  sir.” 

“  Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer  ?  ” 

“  No,  sir.  Nothink  at  all.  Mr.  Chadbands  he  wos  a-prayin 
wunst  at  Mr.  Sangsby’s  and  I  heerd  him,  but  he  sounded  as  if 
he  wos  a-speakin’  to  hisself,  and  not  to  me.  He  prayed  a  lot, 
but  /  couldn’t  make  out  nothink  on  it.  Different  times,  there 
wos  other  genlmen  come  down  Tom-all-Alone’s  a-prayin,  but 
they  all  mostly  sed  as  the  t’other  wuns  prayed  wrong,  and  all 
mostly  sounded  to  be  a-talking  to  theirselves,  or  a-passing 
blame  on  the  t’ others,  and  not  a-talkin  to  us.  We  never 
knowd  nothink,  /never  knowd  what  it  wos  all  about.” 

It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  say  this  ;  and  few  but  an  experi¬ 
enced  and  attentive  listener  could  hear,  or,  hearing,  understand 
him.  After  a  short  relapse  into  a  sleep  or  stupor,  he  makes,  of 
a  sudden,  a  strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

“  Stay,  Jo  !  What  now  ?  ” 

“  It’s  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin-ground,  sir,” 
he  returns  with  a  wild  look. 

“Lie  down,  and  tell  me.  What  burying-ground,  Jo  ?  ” 

“Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to  me,  wery  good 
to  me  indeed,  he  wos.  It’s  time  fur  me  to  go  down  to  that 
there  berryin-ground,  sir,  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with  him.  I 
wants  to  go  there  and  be  berried.  He  used  fur  to  say  to  me, 
‘  I  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo,’  he  ses.  I  wants  to  tell  him 
that  I  am  as  poor  as  him  now,  and  have  come  there  to  be  laid 
along  with  him.” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


271 


“  By  and  by,  Jo.  By  and  by.” 

“Ah!  P’raps  they  wouldn’t  do  it  if  I  wos  to  go  myself. 
But  will  you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir,  and  laid  along 
with  him  ?  ” 

“  I  will,  indeed.” 

“Thank’ee,  sir.  Thank’ee,  sir.  They’ll  have  to  get  the  key 
of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take  me  in,  for  it’s  alius  locked. 
And  there’s  a  step  there,  as  I  used  for  to  clean  with  my  broom. 
— It’s  turned  wery  dark,  sir.  Is  there  any  light  a-comin?” 

“It  is  coming  fast,  Jo.” 

Fast.  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the  rugged  road 
is  very  near  its  end. 

“Jo,  my  poor  fellow  !  ” 

“  I  hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  I’m  a-gropin — a-gropin — 
let  me  catch  hold  of  your  hand.” 

“  Jo,  can  you  say  what  I  say?” 

“I’ll  say  any  think  as  you  say,  sir,  for  I  knows  it’s  good.” 

“  Our  Father.” 

“  Our  Father  ! — yes,  that’s  very  good,  sir.” 

“  Which  art  in  Heaven.” 

“Art  in  Heaven — is  the  light  a-comin,  sir  ?” 

“  It  is  close  at  hand.  Hallowed  be  Thy  name  !” 

“  Hallowed  be — thy — ” 

The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark  benighted  way.  Dead ! 
Dead,  your  Majesty.  Dead,  my  lords  and  gentlemen. 
Dead,  Right  Reverends  and  Wrong  Reverends  of  every  order. 
Dead,  men  and  women,  born  with  heavenly  compassion  in 
your  hearts.  And  dying  thus  around  us  every  day. 

u  X  SEE  him  at  his  worst,  every  day.  I  watch  him  in  his 
X  sleep.  I  know  every  change  of  his  face.  But  when  I 
married  Richard,  I  was  quite  determined,  Esther,  if  Heaven 
would  help  me,  never  to  show  him  that  I  grieved  for  what  he 
did,  and  so  to  make  him  more  unhappy.  I  want  him,  when  he 
comes  home,  to  find  no  trouble  in  my  face.  I  want  him,  when 


2  72  BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 

he  looks  at  me,  to  see  what  he  loved  in  me.  I  married  him 
to  do  this,  and  this  supports  me.” 

I  felt  her  trembling  more.  I  waited  for  what  was  yet  to 
come,  and  I  now  thought  I  began  to  know  what  it  was. 

“And  something  else  supports  me,  Esther.” 

She  stopped  a  minute.  Stopped  speaking  only ;  her  hand 
was  still  in  motion. 

u  I  look  forward  a  little  while,  and  I  don’t  know  what  great 
aid  may  come  to  me.  When  Richard  turns  his  eyes  upon  me 
then,  there  may  be  something  lying  on  my  breast  more  elo¬ 
quent  than  I  have  been,  with  greater  power  than  mine  to  show 
him  his  true  course,  and  win  him  back.” 

Her  hand  stopped  now.  She  clasped  me  in  her  arms,  and  I 
clasped  her  in  mine. 

“  If  that  little  creature  should  fail  too,  Esther,  I  still  look 
forward.  I  look  forward  a  long  while,  through  years  and  years, 
and  think  that  then,  when  I  am  growing  old,  or  when  I  am 
dead  perhaps,  a  beautiful  woman,  his  daughter,  happily  married, 
may  be  proud  of  him  and  a  blessing  to  him.  Or  that  a  gener¬ 
ous  brave  man,  as  handsome  as  he  used  to  be,  as  hopeful,  and 
far  more  happy,  may  walk  in  the  sunshine  with  him,  honoring 
his  gray  head,  and  saying  to  himself,  ‘ I  thank  God  this  is  my 
father !  ruined  by  a  fatal  inheritance,  and  restored  through 
me  !  ’  ” 

O,  my  sweet  girl,  what  a  heart  was  that  which  beat  so  fast 
against  me  ! 

“  These  hopes  uphold  me,  my  dear  Esther,  and  I  know  they 
will.  Though  sometimes  even  they  depart  from  me,  before  a 
dread  that  arises  when  I  look  at  Richard.” 

I  tried  to  cheer  my  darling,  and  asked  her  what  it  was  ? 
Sobbing  and  weeping,  she  replied  : 

“That  he  may  not  live  to  see  his  child.” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


2  73 


FROM  PICKWICK  PAPERS 


u  T  AM.  afraid,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  laying  his  hand 

JL  gently  and  compassionately  on  his  arm ;  “I  am  afraid 
you  will  have  to  live  in  some  noisy,  crowded  place.  Now, 
pray,  consider  this  room  your  own,  when  you  want  quiet,  or 
when  any  of  your  friends  come  to  see  you.” 

“  Friends  !  ”  interposed  the  man,  in  a  voice  which  rattled  in 
his  throat.  “  If  I  lay  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  mine 
in  the  world ;  tight  screwed  down  and  soldered  in  my  coffin  : 
rotting  in  the  dark  and  filthy  ditch  that  drags  its  slime  along, 
beneath  the  foundations  of  this  prison — I  could  not  be  more 
forgotten  or  unheeded  than  I  am  here.  I  am  a  dead  man ; 
dead  to  society,  without  the  pity  they  bestow  on  those  whose 
souls  have  passed  to  judgment.  Friends  to  see  me!  My 
God  !  I  have  sunk,  from  the  prime  of  life  into  old  age,  in 
this  place,  and  there  is  not  one  to  raise  his  hand  above  my  bed 
when  I  lie  dead  upon  it,  and  say,  ‘  It  is  a  blessing  he  is  gone  !  ’  ” 

HE  sick  man  laid  his  hand  upon  his  attendant’s  arm,  and 


X  motioned  him  to  stop.  He  closed  the  book,  and  laid  it 
on  the  bed. 

u  Open  the  window,”  said  the  sick  man. 

He  did  so.  The  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  the  rattle  of 
wheels,  the  cries  of  men  and  boys,  all  the  busy  sounds  of  a 
mighty  multitude  instinct  with  life  and  occupation,  blended 
into  one  deep  murmur,  floated  into  the  room.  Above  the 
hoarse,  loud  hum  arose  from  time  to  time  a  boisterous  laugh  ; 
or  a  scrap  of  some  jingling  song,  shouted  forth,  by  one  of  the 
giddy  crowd,  would  strike  upon  the  ear  for  an  instant,  and 
then  be  lost  amidst  the  roar  of  voices  and  the  tramp  of  foot¬ 
steps  ;  the  breaking  of  the  billows  of  the  restless  sea  of  life, 
that  rolled  heavily  on,  without.  Melancholy  sounds  to  a  quiet 
listener  at  any  time ;  how  melancholy  to  the  watcher  by  the 
bed  of  death  ! 


12* 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


2  74 

<£  There  is  no  air  here,”  said  the  sick  man,  faintly.  “  The 
place  pollutes  it.  It  was  fresh  round  about,  when  I  walked 
there,  years  ago  ;  but  it  grows  hot  and  heavy  in  passing  these 
walls.  I  cannot  breathe  it.” 

“  We  have  breathed  it  together  for  a  long  time,”  said  the  old 
man.  “  Come,  come.” 

% 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  the  two  spectators 
approached  the  bed.  The  sick  man  drew  a  hand  of  his  old 
fellow-prisoner  towards  him,  and  pressing  it  affectionately  be¬ 
tween  both  his  own,  retained  it  in  his  grasp. 

“  I  hope,”  he  gasped  after  a  while — so  faintly  that  they  bent 
their  ears  close  over  the  bed  to  catch  the  half-formed  sounds 
his  pale  lips  gave  vent  to — “  I  hope  my  merciful  Judge  will 
bear  in  mind  my  heavy  punishment  on  earth.  Twenty  years, 
my  friend,  twenty  years  in  this  hideous  grave  !  IVfy  heart 
broke  when  my  child  died,  and  I  could  not  even  kiss  him  in 
his  little  coffin.  My  loneliness  since  then,  in  all  this  noise  and 
riot,  has  been  very  dreadful.  May  God  forgive  me  !  He  has 
seen  my  solitary,  lingering  death.” 

He  folded  his  hands,  and  murmuring  something  more  they 
could  not  hear,  fell  into  a  sleep — only  a  sleep  at  first,  for  they 
saw  him  smile. 

They  whispered  together  for  a  little  time,  and  the  turnkey, 
stooping  over  the  pillow,  drew  hastily  back.  “  He  has  got  his 
discharge,  by  G —  !  ”  said  the  man. 

He  had.  But  he  had  grown  so  like  death  in  life,  that  they 
knew  not  when  he  died. 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

anpHE  very  house  I  live  in,”  sighed  the  poor  gentleman, 
X  “maybe  taken  from  me  to-morrow.  Not  an  article 
of  my  old  furniture,  but  will  be  sold  to  strangers !  ” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


275 


The  last  reflection  hurt  him  so  much,  that  he  took  at  once 
to  his  bed,  apparently  resolved  to  keep  that,  at  all  events. 

“  Cheer  up,  sir  !  ”  said  the  apothecary. 

“You  musn’t  let  yourself  be  cast  down,  sir,”  said  the  nurse. 

“  Such  things  happen  every  day,”  remarked  the  lawyer. 

u  And  it  is  very  sinful  to  rebel  against  them,”  whispered  the 
clergyman. 

“  And  what  no  man  with  a  family  ought  to  do,”  added  the 
neighbors. 

Mr.  Nickleby  shook  his  head,  and  motioning  them  all  out  of 
the  room,  embraced  his  wife  and  children,  and  having  pressed 
them  by  turns  to  his  languidly  beating  heart,  sunk  exhausted  on 
his  pillow.  They  were  concerned  to  find  that  his  reason  went 
astray  after  this  ;  for  he  babbled  for  a  long  time  about  the  gen¬ 
erosity  and  goodness  of  his  brother,  and  the  merry  old  times 
when  they  were  at  school  together.  This  fit  of  wandering  past, 
he  solemnly  commended  them  to  One  who  never  deserted  the 
widow  or  her  fatherless  children,  and  smiling  gently  on  them, 
turned  upon  his  face,  and  observed  that  he  thought  he  could 
fall  asleep. 

LADY  in  deep  mourning  rose  as  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby 


l  entered,  but  appeared  incapable  of  advancing  to  meet 
him,  and  leant  upon  the  arm  of  a  slight  but  very  beautiful  girl 
of  about  seventeen,  who  had  been  sitting  by  her.  A  youth, 
who  appeared  a  year  or  two  older,  stepped  forward  and  saluted 
Ralph  as  his  uncle. 

“  Oh  !  ”  growled  Ralph,  with  an  ill-favored  frown ;  “you  are 
Nicholas,  I  suppose.” 

“  That  is  my  name,  sir,”  replied  the  youth. 

“  Put  my  hat  down  !  ”  said  Ralph,  imperiously.  “  Well, 
ma’am,  how  do  you  do?”  You  must  bear  up  against  sorrow, 
ma’am;  /always  do.” 

“  Mine  was  no  common  loss,”  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  applying 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 


276 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  It  was  no  //^common  loss,  ma’am,”  returned  Ralph,  as  he 
coolly  unbuttoned  his  spencer.  “  Husbands  die  every  day, 
ma’am,  and  wives  too.” 

“And  brothers  also,  sir,”  said  Nicholas,  with  a  glance  of  in¬ 
dignation. 

“  Yes,  sir,  and  puppies  and  pug-dogs  likewise,”  replied  his 
uncle,  taking  a  chair.  “You  didn’t  mention  in  your  letter 
what  my  brother’s  complaint  was,  ma’am.” 

“  The  doctors  could  attribute  it  to  no  particular  disease,” 
said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  shedding  tears.  “We  have  too  much  rea¬ 
son  to  fear  that  he  died  of  a  broken  heart.” 

“Pooh!”  said  Ralph;  “there’s  no  such  thing.  I  can  un¬ 
derstand  a  man’s  dying  of  a  broken  neck,  or  suffering  from  a 
broken  arm,  or  a  broken  head,  or  a  broken  leg,  or  a  broken 
nose  ;  but  a  broken  heart ! — nonsense,  it’s  the  cant  of  the  day. 
If  a  man  can’t  pay  his  debts  he  dies  of  a  broken  heart,  and  his 
widow’s  a  martyr.” 

“  Some  people,  I  believe,  have  no  hearts  to  break,”  observed 
Nicholas  quietly. 

“How  old  is  this  boy,  for  God’s  sake?”  inquired  Ralph, 
wheeling  back  his  chair,  and  surveying  his  nephew  from  head 
to  foot  with  intense  scorn. 

“  Nicholas  is  very  nearly  nineteen,”  replied  the  widow. 

“  Nineteen,  eh  ?  ”  said  Ralph.  “And  what  do  you  mean  to 
do  for  your  bread,  sir  ?  ” 

“Not  to  live  upon  my  mother,”  replied  Nicholas,  his  heart 
swelling  as  he  spoke. 

“  You’d  have  little  enough  to  live  upon,  if  you  did,”  retorted 
the  uncle,  eying  him  contemptuously. 

“Whatever  it  be,”  said  Nicholas,  flushed  with  anger,  “I  shall 
not  look  to  you  to  make  it  more.” 

“Nicholas,  my  dear,  recollect  yourself,”  remonstrated  Mrs. 
Nickleby. 

“  Dear  Nicholas,  pray,”  urged  the  young  lady. 

“  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,”  said  Ralph.  “  Upon  my  word ! 
Fine  beginnings,  Mrs.  Nickleby — fine  beginnings  !  ” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS, 


277 


VAST  deal  of  searching  and  rummaging  ensued,  and  it 


proving  fruitless,  Smike  was  called  in,  and  pushed  by 
Mrs.  Squeers,  and  boxed  by  Mr.  Squeers  ;  which  course  of 
treatment  brightening  his  intellects,  enabled  him  to  suggest  that 
possibly  Mrs.  Squeers  might  have  the  spoon  in  her  pocket,  as 
indeed  turned  out  to  be  the  case.  As  Mrs.  Squeers  had  pre¬ 
viously  protested,  however,  that .  she  was  quite  certain  she  had 
not  got  it,  Smike  received  another  box  on  the  ear  for  presuming 
to  contradict  his  mistress,  together  with  a  promise  of  a  sound 
thrashing  if  he  were  not  more  respectful  in  future ;  so  that  he 
took  nothing  very  advantageous  by  his  motion. 


NE  of  these  expeditions  led  them  through  the  church- 


yard  where  was  his  father’s  grave.  “  Even  here,”  said 
Nicholas,  softly,  “we  used  to  loiter,  before  we  knew  what  death 
was,  and  when  we  little  thought  whose  ashes  would  rest  beneath  ; 
and,  wondering  at  the  silence,  sit  down  to  rest  and  speak  be¬ 
low  our  breath.  Once,  Kate  was  lost,  and  after  an  hour  of 
fruitless  search,  they  found  her  fast  asleep  under  that  tree  which 
shades  my  father’s  grave.  He  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  said 
when  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms,  still  sleeping,  that  whenever 
he  died  he  would  wish  to  be  buried  where  his  dear  little  child 
had  laid  her  head.  You  see  his  wish  was  not  forgotten.” 

Nothing  more  passed  at  the  time;  but  that  night,  as  Nicho¬ 
las  sat  beside  his  bed,  Smike  started  from  what  had  seemed  to 
be  a  slumber,  and  laying  his  hand  in  his,  prayed,  as  the  tears 
coursed  down  his  face,  that  he  would  make  him  one  solemn 
promise. 

“  What  is  that  ?  ”  said  Nicholas,  kindly.  “  If  I  can  redeem 
it,  or  hope  to  do  so,  you  know  I  will.” 

“  I  am  sure  you  will,”  was  the  reply.  “  Promise  me  that 
when  I  die,  I  shall  be  buried  near — as  near  as  they  can  make 
my  grave — to  the  tree  we  saw  to-day.” 

Nicholas  gave  the  promise  ;  he  had  few  words  to  give  it  in, 
but  they  were  solemn  and  earnest.  His  poor  friend  kept  his 
hand  in  his,  and  turned  as  if  to  sleep.  But  there  were  stifled 


278 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


sobs ;  and  the  hand  was  pressed  more  than  once,  or  twice,  or 
thrice,  befor'e  he  sank  to  rest,  and  slowly  loosed  his  hold. 

ON  a  fine,  mild  autumn  day,  when  all  was  tranquil  and  at 
peace,  when  the  soft,  sweet  air  crept  in  at  the  open 
window  of  the  quiet  room,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the 
gentle  rustling  of  the  leaves,  Nicholas  sat  in  his  old  place  by 
the  bedside,  and  knew  that  the  time  was  nearly  come.  So  very 
still  it  was,  that  every  now  and  then  he  bent  down  his  ear  to 
listen  for  the  breathing  of  him  who  lay  asleep,  as  if  to  assure 
himself  that  life  was  still  there,  and  that  he  had  not  fallen  into 
that  deep  slumber  from  which  on  earth  there  is  no  waking. 

While  he  was  thus  employed,  the  closed  eyes  opened,  and 
on  the  pale  face  there  came  a  placid  smile. 

“ That’s  well,”  said  Nicholas.  “The  sleep  has  done  you 
good.” 

“  I  have  had  such  pleasant  dreams,”  was  the  answer.  “  Such 
pleasant,  happy  dreams  !  ” 

“  Of  what  ?  ”  said  Nicholas. 

The  dying  boy  turned  towards  him,  and,  putting  his  arm 
about  his  neck,  made  answer,  “  I  shall  soon  be  there  !  ” 

After  a  short  silence  he  spoke  again. 

“  I  am  not  afraid  to  die,”  he  said,  “  I  am  quite  contented. 
I  almost  think  that  if  I  could  rise  from  this,  bed  quite  well,  I 
would  not  wish  to  do  so,  now.  You  have  so  often  told  me  we 
shall  meet  again — so  very  often  lately,  and  now  I  feel  the  truth 
of  that  so  strongly — that  I  can  even  bear  to  part  from  you.” 

The  trembling  voice  and  tearful  eye,  and  the  closer  grasp  of 
the  arm  which  accompanied  these  latter  words,  showed  how 
they  filled  the  speaker’s  heart ;  nor  were  there  wanting  indica¬ 
tions  of  how  deeply  they  had  touched  the  heart  of  him  to  whom 
they  were  addressed. 

“You  say  well,”  returned  Nicholas,  at  length,  “  and  comfort 
me  very  much,  dear  fellow.  Let  me  hear  you  say  you  are 
happy,  if  you  can.”  \ 

“  You  must  tell  me  something  first.  I  should  not  have  a 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


279 


secret  from  you.  You  will  not  blame  me  at  a  time  like  this,  I 
know.” 

“/blame  you  !”  exclaimed  Nicholas. 

“  I  am  sure  you  will  not.  You  asked  me  why  I  was  so 
changed  and — and  sat  so  much  alone.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  ” 

“  Not  if  it  pains  you,”  said  Nicholas.  “I  only  asked  that  I 
might  make  you  happier,  if  I  could.” 

“  I  know.  I  felt  that  at  the  time.”  He  drew  his  friend 
closer  to  him.  “You  will  forgive  me;  I  could  not  help  it; 
but  though  I  would  have  died  to  make  her  happy,  it  broke  my 
heart  to  see — I  know  he  loves  her  dearly — oh  !  who  could  find 
that  out  so  soon  as  I  ?  ” 

The  words  which  followed  were  feebly  and  faintly  uttered, 
and  broken  by  long  pauses  ;  but  from  them  Nicholas  learnt, 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  dying  boy,  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
nature  concentrated  on  one  absorbing,  hopeless,  secret  passion, 
loved  his  sister  Kate. 

He  had  procured  a  lock  of  her  hair,  which  hung  at  his  breast, 
folden  in  one  or  two  slight  ribands  she  had  worn.  He  prayed 
that  when  he  was  dead,  Nicholas  would  take  it  off,  so  that  no 
eyes  but  his  might  see  it,  and  that  when  he  was  laid  in  his  cof¬ 
fin  and  about  to  be  placed  in  the  earth,  he  would  hang  it  round 
his  neck  again,  that  it  might  rest  with  him  in  the  grave. 

Upon  his  knees,  Nicholas  gave  him  this  pledge,  and  promised 
again  that  he  should  rest  in  the  spot  he  had  pointed  out.  They 
embraced  and  kissed  each  other  on  the  cheek. 

“  Now,”  he  murmured,  “  I  am  happy.” 

He  fell  into  a  light  slumber,  and  waking,  smiled  as  before  ; 
then,  spoke  of  beautiful  gardens,  which  he  said  stretched  out 
before  him,  and  were  filled  with  figures  of  men,  women,  and 
many  children,  all  with  light  upon  their  faces  ;  then  whispered 
that  it  was  Eden — and  so  died. 

THE  grass  was  green  above  the  dead  boy’s  grave,  and 
trodden  by  feet  so  small  and  light,  that  not  a  daisy 
drooped  its  head  beneath  their  pressure.  Through  all  the 


28o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


spring  and  summer-time,  garlands  of  fresh  flowers,  wreathed  by 
infant  hands,  rested  on  the  stone  ;  and,  when  the  children 
came  here  to  change  them  lest  they  should  wither  and  be  pleas¬ 
ant  to  him  no  longer,  their  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  they 
spoke  low  and  softly  of  their  poor  dead  cousin. 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

“  T^V  AVID  COPPERFIELD,”  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  leading 

J _ /  me  to  a  sofa,  and  sitting  down  beside  me.  “  I  want 

to  speak  to  you  very  particularly.  I  have  something  to  tell 
you,  my  child.” 

Mr.  Creakle,  at  whom  of  course  I  looked,  shook  his  head 
without  looking  at  me,  and  stopped  up  a  sigh  with  a  very  large 
piece  of  buttered  toast. 

“You  are  too  young  to  know  how  the  world  changes  every 
day,”  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  “  and  how  the  people  in  it  pass  away. 
But  we  all  have  to  learn  it,  David  ;  some  of  us  when  we  are 
young,  some  of  us  when  we  are  old,  some  of  us  at  all  times  of 
our  lives.” 

I  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

“  When  you  came  away  from  home  at  the  end  of  the  vaca¬ 
tion,”  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  after  a  pause,  “  were  they  all  well  ?  ” 
After  another  pause,  “  Was  your  mamma  well  ?  ” 

I  trembled  without  distinctly  knowing  why,  and  still  looked 
at  her  earnestly,  making  no  attempt  to  answer. 

“Because,”  said  she,  “i  grieve  to  tell  you  that  I  hear  this 
morning  your  mamma  is  very  ill.” 

A  mist  rose  between  Mrs.  Creakle  and  me,  and  her  figure 
seemed  to  move  in  it  for  an  instant.  Then  I  felt  the  burning 
tears  run  down  my  face,  and  it  was  steady  again. 

“  She  is  very  dangerously  ill,”  she  added. 

I  knew  all  now. 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


281 


“  She  is  dead.” 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  me  so.  I  had  already  broken  out 
into  a  desolate  cry,  and  felt  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world. 


HE  gave  me  one  piece  of  intelligence  which  affected  me 


very  much ;  namely,  that  there  had  been  a  sale  of  the 
furniture  at  our  old  home,  and  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone 
were  gone  away,  and  the  house  was  shut  up,  to  be  let  or  sold. 
God  knows  I  had  no  part  in  it  while  they  remained  there,  but 
it  pained  me  to  think  of  the  dear  old  place  as  altogether  aban¬ 
doned  ;  of  the  weeds  growing  tall  in  the  garden,  and  the  fallen 
leaves  lying  thick  and  wet  upon  the  paths.  I  imagined  how 
the  winds  of  winter  would  howl  round  it,  how  the  cold  rain 
would  beat  upon  the  window-glass,  how  the  moon  would  make 
ghosts  on  the  walls  of  the  empty  rooms,  watching  their  solitude 
all  night.  I  thought  afresh  of  the  grave  in  the  churchyard, 
underneath  the  tree  :  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  house  were  dead 
too,  now,  and  all  connected  with  my  father  and  mother  were 
faded  away. 

I  WAS  up  with  the  dull  dawn,  and  having  dressed  as  quietly 
as  I  could,  looked  into  his  room.  He  was  fast  asleep, 
lying  easily,  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  as  I  had  often  seen  him 
lie  at  school. 

The  time  came  in  its  season,  and  that  was  very  soon,  when 
I  almost  wondered  that  nothing  troubled  his  repose,  as  I 
looked  at  him.  But  he  slept — let  me  think  of  him  so  again — 
as  I  had  often  seen  him  sleep  at  school ;  and  thus,  in  this 
silent  hour,  I  left  him. 

— Nevermore,  oh  God,  forgive  you,  Steerforth  !  to  touch 
that  passive  hand  in  love  and  friendship.  Never,  nevermore  ! 

HE  was  lying  with  his  head  and  shoulders  out  of  bed  in 
an  uncomfortable  attitude,  half  resting  on  the  box  which 
had  cost  him  so  much  pain  and  trouble.  I  learned  that  when 


282 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


he  was  past  creeping  out  of  bed  to  open  it,  and  past  assuring 
himself  of  its  safety,  by  means  of  the  divining  rod  I  had  seen 
him  use,  he  had  required  to  have  it  placed  on  the  chair  at 
the  bedside,  where  he  had  ever  since  embraced  it,  night  and 
day.  His  arm  lay  on  it  now.  Time  and  the  world  were 
slipping  from  beneath  him,  but  the  box  was  there ;  and  the 
last  words  he  had  uttered  were  (in  an  explanatory  tone)  “  Old 
clothes  !  ” 

“  Barkis,  my  dear  !  ”  said  Peggotty,  almost  cheerfully  :  bend¬ 
ing  over  him,  while  her  brother  and  I  stood  at  the  bed’s  foot. 
“  Here’s  my  dear  boy — my  dear  boy,  Master  Davy,  who 
brought  us  together,  Barkis  !  That  you  sent  messages  by,  you 
know  !  Won’t  you  speak  to  Master  Davy  ?  ” 

He  was  as  mute  and  senseless  as  the  box  from  which  his 
form  derived  the  only  expression  it  had. 

“  He’s  a-going  out  with  the  tide,”  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to  me, 
behind  his  hand. 

My  eyes  were  dim,  and  so  were  Mr.  Peggotty’s  ;  but  I  re¬ 
peated  in  a  whisper,  “With  the  tide?” 

“  People  can’t  die  along  the  coast,”  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
“except  when  the  tide’s  pretty  nigh  out.  They  can’t  be  born, 
unless  it’s  pretty  nigh  in — not  properly  born,  till  flood.  He’s 
a-going  out  with  the  tide.  It’s  ebb  at  half-arter  three,  slack 
water  half  an  hour.  If  he  lives  ’till  it  turns,  he’ll  hold  his  own 
till  past  the  flood,  and  go  out  with  the  next  tide.” 

We  remained  there,  watching  him,  a  long  time — hours. 
What  mysterious  influence  my  presence  had  upon  him  in  that 
state  of  his  senses,  I  shall  not  pretend  to  say ;  but  when  he  at 
last  began  to  wander  feebly,  it  is  certain  he  was  muttering 
about  driving  me  to  school. 

“  He’s  coming  to  himself,”  said  Peggotty. 

Mr.  Peggoty  touched  me,  and  whispered  with  much  awe  and 
reverence,  “  They  are  both  a-going  out  fast.” 

“  Barkis,  my  dear  !  ”  said  Peggotty. 

“  C.  P.  Barkis,”  he  cried  faintly.  “  No  better  woman  any¬ 
where  !  ” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS.  283 

“Look!  Here’s  Master  Davy!”  said  Peggotty.  For  he 
now  opened  his  eyes. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  if  he  knew  me,  when  he 
tried  to  stretch  out  his  arm,  and  said  to  me  distinctly,  with  a 
pleasant  smile  : 

“  Barkis  is  willin’  !  ” 

And,  it  being  low  water,  he  went  out  with  the  tide. 

IT  was  only  Ham.  The  night  should  have  turned  more  wet 
since  I  came  in,  for  he  had  a  large  sou’wester  hat  on, 
slouched  over  his  face. 

“Wheer’s  Em’ly?”  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

Ham  made  a  motion  with  his  head,  as  if  she  were  outside. 
Mr.  Peggotty  took  the  light  from  the  window,  trimmed  it,  put 
it  on  the  table,  and  was  busily  stirring  the  fire,  when  Ham,  who 
had  not  moved,  said  : 

“  Mas’r  Davy,  will  you  come  out  a  minute,  and  see  what 
Em’ly  and  me  has  got  to  show  you  ?  ” 

We  went  out.  As  I  passed  him  at  the  door,  I  saw,  to  my 
astonishment  and  fright,  that  he  was  deadly  pale.  He  pushed 
me  hastily  into  the  open  air,  and  closed  the  door  upon  us. 
Only  upon  us  two. 

“  Ham  !  what’s  the  matter?” 

“  Mas’r  Davy  ! — ”  Oh,  for  his  broken  heart,  how  dreadfully 
he  wept ! 

I  was  paralyzed  by  the  sight  of  such  grief.  I  don’t  know 
what  I  thought  or  what  I  dreaded.  I  could  only  look  at  him. 

“  Ham  !  Poor,  good  fellow  !  For  Heaven’s  sake,  tell  me 
what’s  the  matter  !  ” 

“My  love,  Mas’r  Davy — the  pride  and  hope  of  my  art — her 
that  I’d  have  died  for,  and  would  die  for  now — she’s  gone  !” 

“  Gone !  ” 

“Em’ly’s  run  away  !  Oh,  Mas’r  Davy,  think  how  she’s  run 
away,  when  I  pray  my  good  and  gracious  God  to  kill  her  (her 
that  is  so  dear  above  all  things)  sooner  than  let  her  come  to 
ruin  and  disgrace  !  ” 


284 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


The  face  he  turned  up  to  the  troubled  sky,  the  quivering  of 
his  clasped  hands,  the  agony  of  his  figure,  remain  associated 
with  that  lonely  waste,  in  my  remembrance,  to  this  hour.  It 
is  always  night  there,  and  he  is  the  only  object  in  the  scene. 


u 


VERY  night,”  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  “as  reg’lar  as  the 
^  night  comes,  the  candle  must  be  stood  in  its  old  pane 


of  glass,  that  if  ever  she  should  see  it,  it  may  seem  to  say, 
1  Come  back,  my  child,  come  back  !  ’  If  ever  there’s  a  knock, 
Ham  (partic’ler  a  soft  knock),  arter  dark,  at  your  aunt’s  door, 
doen’t  you  go  nigh  it.  Let  it  be  her — not  you — that  sees  my 
fallen  child !  ” 


BUT,  as  that  year  wore  on,  Dora  was  not  strong.  I  had 
hoped  that  lighter  hands  than  mine  would  help  to  mould 
her  character,  and  that  a  baby-smile  upon  her  breast  might 
change  my  child-wife  to  a  woman.  It  was  not  to  be.  The 
spirit  fluttered  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  its  little  prison, 
and,  unconscious  of  captivity,  took  wing. 

BUT  sometimes,  when  I  took  her  up,  and  felt  that  she  was 
lighter  in  my  arms,  a  dead  blank  feeling  came  upon  me, 
as  if  I  were  approaching  to  some  frozen  region,  yet  unseen,  that 
numbed  my  life.  I  avoided  the  recognition  of  this  feeling  by 
any  name,  or  by  any  communing  with  myself ;  until  one  night, 
when  it  was  very  strong  upon  me,  and  my  aunt  had  left  her 
with  a  parting  cry  of  “  Good-night,  Little  Blossom,”  I  sat  down 
at  my  desk  alone,  and  cried  to  think,  oh  what  a  fatal  name  it 
was,  and  how  the  blossom  withered  in  its  bloom  upon  the  tree ! 


AGNES  is  downstairs,  when  I  go  into  the  parlor,  and  I 
give  her  the  message.  She  disappears,  leaving  me  alone 
with  Jip. 

His  Chinese  house  is  by  the  fire  ;  and  he  lies  within  it,  on 
his  bed  of  flannel,  querulously  trying  to  sleep.  The  bright 


LIFE'S  SEA  DO  TVS. 


285 


moon  is  high  and  clear.  As  I  look  out  on  the  night,  my  tears  fall 
fast,  and  my  undisciplined  heart  is  chastened  heavily — heavily. 

I  sit  down  by  the  fire,  thinking  with  a  blind  remorse  of  all 
those  secret  feelings  I  have  nourished  since  my  marriage.  I 
think  of  every  little  trifle  between  me  and  Dora,  and  feel  the 
truth,  that  trifles  make  the  sum  of  life.  Ever  rising  from  the 
sea  of  my  remembrance,  is  the  image  of  the  dear  child  as  I 
knew  her  first,  graced  by  my  young  love,  and  by  her  own,  with 
every  fascination  wherein  such  love  is  rich.  Would  it,  indeed, 
have  been  better  if  we  had  loved  each  other  as  a  boy  and  girl, 
and  forgotten  it?  Undisciplined  heart,  reply  ! 

How  the  time  wears,  I  know  not ;  until  I  am  recalled  by  my 
child- wife’s  old  companion.  More  restless  than  he  was,  he 
crawls  out  of  his  house,  and  looks  at  me,  and  wanders  to  the 
door,  and  whines  to  go  upstairs. 

“  Not  to-night,  Jip  !  Not  to-night !  ” 

He  comes  very  slowly  back  to  me,  licks  my  hand,  and  lifts 
his  dim  eyes  to  my  face. 

“  Oh,  Jip  !  It  may  be  never  again  !  ” 

He  lies  down  at  my  feet,  stretches  himself  out  as  if  to  sleep, 
and  with  a  plaintive  cry  is  dead. 

“  Oh,  Agnes  !-  Look,  look,  here  !” 

— That  face,  so  full  of  pity  and  of  grief,  that  rain  of  tears, 
that  awful,  mute  appeal  to  me,  that  solemn  hand  upraised  to¬ 
wards  Heaven ! 

“  Agnes  ?  ” 

It  is  over.  Darkness  comes  before  my  eyes ;  and  for  a  time 
all  things  are  blotted  out  of  my  remembrance. 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

THUS  for  ten  days  Little  Dorrit  bent  over  his  pillow, 
laying  her  cheek  against  his.  Sometimes  she  was  so 
worn  out  that  for  a  few  minutes  they  would  slumber  together. 


286 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Then  she  would  awake ;  to  recollect  with  fast-flowing,  silent 
tears  what  it  was  that  touched  her  face,  and  to  see,  stealing 
over  the  cherished  face  upon  the  pillow,  a  deeper  shadow  than 
the  shadow  of  the  Marshalsea  Wall. 

Quietly,  quietly,  all  the  lines  of  the  plan  of  the  great  Castle 
melted,  one  after  another.  Quietly,  quietly,  the  ruled  and 
cross-ruled  countenance  on  which  they  were  traced  became 
fair  and  blank.  Quietly,  quietly,  the  reflected  marks  of  the 
prison-bars  and  of  the  zig-zag  iron  on  the  wall-top  faded  away. 
Quietly,  quietly,  the  face  subsided  into  a  far  younger  likeness 
of  her  own  than  she  had  ever  seen  under  the  gray  hair,  and 
sank  to  rest. 

At  first  her  uncle  was  stark  distracted.  “  O  my  brother. 
O  William,  William  !  You  to  go  before  me  ;  you  to  go  alone; 
you  to  go,  and  I  to  remain  !  You,  so  far  superior,  so  distin¬ 
guished,  so  noble;  I,  a  poor  useless  creature,  fit  for  nothing, 
and  whom  no  one  would  have  missed  !  ” 

It  did  her,  for  the  time,  the  good  of  having  him  to  think  of, 
and  to  succor.  ‘‘Uncle,  dear  uncle,  spare  yourself,  spare 
me  !  ” 

The  old  man  was  not  deaf  to  the  last  words.  When  he 
did  begin  to  restrain  himself,  it  was  that  he  might  spare 
her.  He  had  no  care  for  himself ;  but,  with  all  the  remaining 
power  of  the  honest  heart,  stunned  so  long,  and  now  awaking 
to  be  broken,  he  honored  and  blessed  her. 

“  O  God,”  he  cried,  before  they  left  the  room,  with  his 
wrinkled  hands  clasped  over  her.  “  Thou  seest  this  daughter 
of  my  dear,  dead  brother  !  All  that  I  have  looked  upon,  with 
my  half-blind  and  sinful  eyes,  Thou  hast  discerned  clearly, 
brightly.  Not  a  hair  of  her  head  shall  be  harmed  before  Thee. 
Thou  wilt  uphold  her  here,  to  her  last  hour.  And  I  know 
Thou  wilt  reward  her  hereafter  !  ” 

They  remained  in  a  dim  room  near,  until  it  was  almost 
midnight,  quiet  and  sad  together.  At  times  his  grief  would 
seek  relief,  in  a  burst  like  that  in  which  it  had  found  its 
earliest  expression ;  but,  besides  that  this  little  strength  would 


LIFE'S  SHADOW'S. 


287 


soon  have  been  unequal  to  such  strains,  he  never  failed  to  re¬ 
call  her  words,  and  to  reproach  himself  and  calm  himself. 
The  only  utterance  with  which  he  indulged  his  sorrow  was  the 
frequent  exclamation  that  his  brother  was  gone,  alone ;  that 
they  had  been  together  in  the  outset  of  their  lives,  that  they 
had  fallen  into  misfortune  together,  that  they  had  kept  to¬ 
gether  through  their  many  years  of  poverty,  that  they  had  re¬ 
mained  together  to  that  day ;  and  that  his  brother  was  gone, 
alone,  alone  ! 

They  parted,  heavy  and  sorrowful.  She  would  not  consent 
to  leave  him  anywhere  but  in  his  own  room,  and  she  saw  him 
lie  down  in  his  clothes  upon  his  bed,  and  covered  him  with 
her  own  hands.  Then  she  sank  upon  her  own  bed,  and  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep  :  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  and  rest,  though  not 
of  complete  release  from  a  pervading  consciousness  of  afflic¬ 
tion.  Sleep,  good  little  Dorrit.  Sleep  through  the  night. 

It  was  a  moonlight  night;  but  the  moon  rose  late,  being 
long  past  the  full.  When  it  was  high  in  the  peaceful  firma¬ 
ment,  it  shone  through  half-closed  lattice  blinds  into  the  solemn 
room  where  the  stumblings  and  wanderings  of  a  life  had  so 
lately  ended.  Two  quiet  figures  were  within  the  room ;  two 
figures,  equally  still  and  impassive,  equally  removed  by  an  un- 
traversable  distance  from  the  teeming  earth  and  all  that  it 
contains,  though  soon  to  lie  in  it. 

One  figure  reposed  upon  the  bed.  The  other,  kneeling  on 
the  floor,  drooped  over  it ;  the  arms  easily  and  peacefully 
resting  on  the  coverlet ;  the  face  bowed  down,  so  that  the 
lips  touched  the  hand  over  which,  with  its  last  breath,  it  had 
bent.  The  two  brothers  were  before  their  Father ;  far  beyond 
tbe  twilight  judgments  of  this  world ;  high  above  its  mists  and 
obscurities. 


288 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 


O  cold,  although  the  air  was  warm ;  so  dull,  although 


wj)  the  sky  was  bright :  that  he  rose  up  shivering,  from 
his  seat,  and  hastily  resumed  his  walk.  He  checked  himself 
as  hastily  :  undecided  whether  to  pursue  the  footpath  which 
was  lonely  and  retired,  or  to  go  back  by  the  road. 

He  took  the  footpath. 

The  glory  of  the  departing  sun  was  on  his  face.  The  music 
of  the  birds  was  in  his  ear.  Sweet  wild-flowers  bloomed  about 
him.  Thatched  roofs  of  poor  men’s  homes  were  in  the  dis¬ 
tance  ;  and  an  old  gray  spire,  surmounted  by  a  Cross,  rose  up 
between  him  and  the  coming  night. 

He  had  never  read  the  lesson  which  these  things  conveyed ; 
he  had  ever  mocked  and  turned  away  from  it ;  but,  before  go¬ 
ing  down  into  a  hollow  place,  he  looked  round,  once,  upon  the 
evening  prospect,  sorrowfully.  Then  he  went  down,  down, 
down  into  the  dell. 

It  brought  him  to  the  wood  ;  a  close,  thick,  shadowy  wood, 
through  which  the  path  went  winding  on,  dwindling  away  into 
a  slender  sheep-track.  He  paused  before  entering  ;  for  the 
stillness  of  this  spot  almost  daunted  him. 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  were  shining  in,  aslant,  making  a 
path  of  golden  light  along  the  stems  and  branches  in  its  range, 
which,  even  as  he  looked,  began  to  die  away,  yielding  gently 
to  the  twilight  that  came  creeping  on.  It  was  so  very  quiet 
that  the  soft  and  stealthy  moss  about  the  trunks  of  some  old 
trees,  seemed  to  have  grown  out  of  the  silence,  and  to  be  its 
proper  offspring.  Those  other  trees  which  were  subdued  by 
blasts  of  wind  in  winter-time,  had  not  quite  tumbled  down,  but 
being  caught  by  others,  lay  all  bare  and  scathed  across  their 
leafy  arms,  as  if  unwilling  to  disturb  the  general  repose  by  the 
crash  of  their  fall.  Vistas  of  silence  o'pened  everywhere,  into 
the  heart  and  innermost  recesses  of  the  wood ;  beginning  with 
the  likeness  of  an  aisle,  a  cloister,  or  a  ruin  open  to  the  sky ; 


LIFE'S  SHADO  WS. 


289 


then  tangling  off  into  a  deep  green  rustling  mystery,  through 
which  gnarled  trunks,  and  twisted,  boughs,  and  ivy-covered 
stems,  and  trembling  leaves,  and  bark-stripped  bodies  of  old 
trees  stretched  out  at  length,  were  faintly  seen  in  beautiful 
confusion. 

As  the  sunlight  died  away,  and  evening  fell  upon  the  wood, 
he  entered  it.  Moving,  here  and  there,  a  bramble  or  a  droop¬ 
ing  bough  which  stretched  across  his  path,  he  slowly  disap¬ 
peared.  At  intervals  a  narrow  opening  showed  him  passing 
on,  or  the  sharp  cracking  of  some  tender  branch  denoted  where 
he  went :  then,  he  was  seen  or  heard  no  more. 

Never  more  beheld  by  mortal  eye  or  heard  by  mortal  ear  : 
one  man  excepted. 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL, 


HE  dull,  red  glow  of  a  wood-fire — for  no  lamp  or  candle 


X  burnt  within  the  room — showed  him  a  figure  seated  on 
the  hearth  with  its  back  towards  him,  bending  over  the  fitful 
light.  The  attitude  was  that  of  one  who  sought  the  heat.  It 
was,  and  yet  was  not.  The  stooping  pressure  and  the  cowering 
form  were  there,  but  no  hands  were  stretched  out  to  meet  the 
grateful  warmth,  no  shrug  or  shiver  compared  its  luxury  with 
the  piercing  cold  outside.  With  limbs  huddled  together,  head 
bowed  down,  arms  crossed  upon  the  breast,  and  fingers  tightly 
clenched,  it  rocked  to  and  fro  upon  its  seat  without  a  moment’s 
pause,  accompanying  the  action  with  the  mournful  sound  he 
had  heard. 

The  heavy  door  had  closed  behind  him  on  his  entrance  with 
a  crash  that  made  him  start.  The  figure  neither  spoke,  nor 
turned  to  look,  nor  gave  in  any  other  way  the  faintest  sign  of 
having  heard  the  noise.  The  form  was  that  of  an  old  man,  his 
white  head  akin  in  color  to  the  mouldering  embers  upon  which 
he  gazed.  He,  and  the  failing  light,  and  dying  fire,  the  time- 


18 


290 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


worn  room,  the  solitude,  the  wasted  life  and  gloom,  were  all  in 
fellowship.  Ashes,  and  dust,  and  ruin  ! 

Kit  tried  to  speak,  and  did  pronounce  some  words,  though 
what  they  were  he  scarcely  knew.  Still  the  same  terrible  low 
cry  went  on — still  the  same  rocking  in  the  chair — the  same 
stricken  figure  was  there,  unchanged  and  heedless  of  his 
presence. 

He  had  his  hand  upon  the  latch,  when  something  in  the 
form — distinctly  seen  as  one  log  broke  and  fell,  and  as  it  fell, 
blazed  up — arrested  it.  He  returned  to  where  he  had  stood 
before — advanced  a  pace — another — another  still.  Another, 
and  he  saw  the  face.  Yes  !  Changed  as  it  was,  he  knew  it  well. 

“Master  !  ”  he  cried,  stooping  on  one  knee,  and  catching  at 
his  hand.  “  Dear  master.  Speak  to  me  !  ” 

The  old  man  turned  slowly  towards  him,  and  muttered  in  a 
hollow  voice  : 

“This  is  another! — How  many  of  these  spirits  there  have 
been  to-night !  ” 

“No  spirit,  master.  No  one  but  your  old  servant.  You 
know  me  now,  I  am  sure.  Miss  Nell — where  is  she — where 
is  she  ?” 

“  They  all  say  that !  ”  cried  the  old  man.  “  They  all  ask 
the  same  question.  A  spirit !  ” 

“Where  is  she  ?  ”  demanded  Kit.  “  Oh  tell  me  but  that — 
but  that,  dear  master  !  ” 

“  She  is  asleep — yonder — in  there.” 

“Thank  God!” 

“Aye!  Thank  God!”  returned  the  old  man.  “I  have 
prayed  to  Him  many  and  many  and  many  a  livelong  night, 
when  she  has  been  asleep,  He  knows.  Hark  !  Did  she  call  ?” 

“  I  heard  no  voice.” 

“You  did.  You  hear  her  now.  Do  you  tell  me  that  you 
don’t  hear  that ?” 

He  started  up  and  listened  again. 

“Nor  that  ?  ”  he  cried,  with  a  triumphant  smile.  “Can  any¬ 
body  know  that  voice  so  well  as  I  ?  Hush  !  hush  !  ” 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


29I 


Motioning  him  to  be  silent,  he  stole  away  into  another 
chamber.  After  a  .short  absence  (during  which  he  could  be 
heard  to  speak  in  a  softened,  soothing  tone)  he  returned,  bear¬ 
ing  in  his  hand  a  lamp. 

“  She  is  still  asleep,”  he  whispered.  “  You  were  right.  She 
did  not  call — unless  she  did  so  in  her  slumber.  She  has  called 
to  me  in  her  sleep  before  now,  sir ;  as  I  have  sat  by  watching, 
I  have  seen  her  lips  move,  and  have  known,  though  no  sound 
came  from  them,  that  she  spoke  of  me.  I  feared  the  light 
might  dazzle  her  eyes  and  wake  her,  so  I  brought  it  here.” 

He  spoke  rather  to  himself  than  to  the  visitor ;  but  when  he 
had  put  the  lamp  upon  the  table,  he  took  it  up,  as  if  impelled 
by  some  momentary  recollection  or  curiosity,  and  held  it  near 
his  face.  Then,  as  if  forgetting  his  motive  in  the  very  action, 
he  turned  away  and  put  it  down  again. 

“  She  is  sleeping  soundly,”  he  said;  “but  no  wonder. 
Angel  hands  have  strewn  the  ground  deep  with  snow,  that  the 
lightest  footstep  may  be  lighter  yet ;  and  the  very  birds  are 
dead,  that  they  may  not  wake  her.  She  used  to  feed  them,  sir. 
Though  never  so  cold  and  hungry,  the  timid  things  would  fly 
from  us.  They  never  flew  from  her  !  ” 

Again  he  stopped  to  listen,  and  scarcely  drawing  breath,  lis¬ 
tened  for  a  long,  long  time.  That  fancy  past,  he  opened  an 
old  chest,  took  out  some  clothes  as  fondly  as  if  they  had  been 
living  things,  and  began  to  smooth  and  brush  them  with  his 
hand. 

“Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  dear  Nell,”  he  murmured, 
“  when  there  are  bright  red  berries  out-of-doors  waiting  for  thee 
to  pluck  them  ?  Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  when  thy  lit¬ 
tle  friends  come  creeping  to  the  door,  crying  ‘  where  is  Nell — ■ 
sweet  Nell  ?  ’ — and  sob  and  weep  because  they  do  not  see 
thee  ?  She  was  always  gentle  with  children.  The  wildest 
would  do  her  bidding — she  had  a  tender  way  with  them  ;  indeed 
she  had !  ” 

Kit  had  no  power  to  speak.  His  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

“Her  little  homely  dress — her  favorite  ! ”  cried  the  old  man, 


292 


BEAUTIRS  OF  DICKENS. 


pressing  it  to  his  breast,  and  patting  it  with  his  shrivelled  hand. 
“  She  will  miss  it  when  she  wakes.  They  have  hid  it  here  in 
sport,  but  she  shall  have  it — -she  shall  have  it.  I  would  not  vex 
my  darling  for  the  wide  world’s  riches.  See  here — these  shoes 
— how  worn  they  are — she  kept  them  to  remind  her  of  our  last 
long  journey.  You  see  where  the  little  feet  went  bare  upon 
the  ground.  They  told  me  afterwards  that  the  stones  had  cut 
and  bruised  them.  She  never  told  me  that.  No,  no,  God 
bless  her !  and  I  have  remembered  since,  she  walked  behind 
me,  sir,  that  I  might  not  see  how  lame  she  was — but  yet. she 
had  my  hand  in  hers,  and  seemed  to  lead  me  still.” 

He  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and  having  carefully  put  them 
back  again,  went  on  communing  with  himself — looking  wistfully 
from  time  to  time  towards  the  chamber  he  had  lately  visited. 

“  She  was  not  wont  to  be  a  lie-abed  ;  but  she  was  well  then. 
We  must  have  patience.  When  she  is  well  again,  she  will  rise 
early,  as  she  used  to  do,  and  ramble  abroad  in  the  healthy 
morning-time.  I  often  tried  to  track  the  way  she  had  gone, 
but  her  small  footstep  left  no  print  upon  the  dewy  ground  to 
guide  me.  Who  is  that  ?  Shut  the  door.  Quick  ! — Have  we 
not  enough  to  do  to  drive  away  that  marble  cold,  and  keep  her 
warm  ?  ” 

The  door  was  indeed  opened,  for  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Gar¬ 
land  and  his  friend,  accompanied  by  two  other  persons.  These 
were  the  schoolmaster  and  the  bachelor.  The  former  held  a 
light  in  his  hand.  He  had,  it  seemed,  but  gone  to  his  own  cot¬ 
tage  to  replenish  the  exhausted  lamp,  at  the  moment  when  Kit 
came  up  and  found  the  old  man  alone. 

He  softened  again  at  sight  of  these  two  friends,  and,  laying 
aside  the  angry  manner — if  to  anything  so  feeble  and  so  sad 
the  term  can  be  applied — in  which  he  had  spoken  when  the 
door  opened,  resumed  his  former  seat,  and  subsided,  by  little 
and  little,  into  the  old  action,  and  the  old,  dull,  wandering 
sound. 

Of  the  strangers  he  took  no  heed  whatever.  He  had  seen 
them,  but  appeared  quite  incapable  of  interest  or  curiosity. 


LIFE'S  SHADOW'S. 


2  93 


The  younger  brother  stood  apart.  The  bachelor  drew  a  chair 
towards  the  old  man,  and  sat  down  close  behind  him.  After  a 
long  silence,  he  ventured  to  speak. 

“Another  night,  and  not  in  bed  !  ”  he  said  softly;  “  I  hoped 
you  would  be  more  mindful  of  your  promise  to  me.  Why  do 
you. not  take  some  rest?” 

u  Sleep  has  left  me,”  returned  the  old  man.  “  It  is  all  with 
her !  ” 

“  It  would  pain  her  very  much  to  know  that  you  were  watch¬ 
ing  thus,”  said  the  bachelor.  “  You  would  not  give  her  pain  ?  ” 

“  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  if  it  would  only  rouse  her.  She 
has  slept  so  very  long.  And  yet  I  am  rash  to  say  so.  It  is  a 
good  and  happy  sleep — eh  ?  ” 

“  Indeed  it  is,”  returned  the  bachelor.  “  Indeed,  indeed,  it 
is!” 

“  That’s  well ! — and  the  waking” — faltered  the  old  man. 

“  Happy  too.  Happier  than  tongue  can  tell,  or  heart  of  man 
conceive.” 

They  watched  him  as  he  rose  and  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  other 
chamber  where  the  lamp  had  been  replaced.  They  listened  as 
he  spoke  again  within  its  silent  wails.  They  looked  into  the 
faces  of  each  other,  and  no  man’s  cheek  was  free  from  tears. 
He  came  back,  whispering  that  she  was  still  asleep,  but  that  he 
thought  she  had  moved.  It  was  her  hand,  he  said — a  little — a 
very,  very  little — but  he  was  pretty  sure  she  had  moved  it — 
perhaps  in  seeking  his.  He  had  known  her  do  that,  before  now, 
though  in  the  deepest  sleep  the  while.  And  when  he  had  said 
this,  he  dropped  into  his  chair  again,  and  clasping  his  hands 
above  his  head,  uttered  a  cry  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  poor  schoolmaster  motioned  to  the  bachelor  that  he 
would  come  on  the  other  side,  and  speak  to  him.  They  gently 
unlocked  his  fingers,  which  he  had  twisted  in  his  gray  hair,  and 
pressed  them  in  their  own. 

“  He  will  hear  me,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  “  I  am  sure.  He 
will  hear  either  me  or  you,  if  we  beseech  him.  She  would  at 
all  times.” 


294 


BE  A  UTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


“  I  will  hear  any  voice  she  liked  to  hear,”  cried  the  old  man. 
“  I  love  all  she  loved  !  ” 

“  I  know  you  do,”  returned  the  schoolmaster.  “  I  am  cer¬ 
tain  of  it.  Think  of  her ;  think  of  all  the  sorrows  and  afflic¬ 
tions  you  have  shared  together ;  of  all  the  trials,  and  all  the 
peaceful  pleasures,  you  have  jointly  known.” 

“  I  do.  I  do.  I  think  of  nothing  else.” 

“  I  would  have  you  think  of  nothing  else  to-night — of  nothing 
but  those  things  which  will  soften  your  heart,  dear  friend,  and 
open  it  to  old  affections  and  old  times.  It  is  so  that,  she  would 
speak  to  you  herself,  and  in  her  name  it  is  that  I  speak  now.” 

“You  do  well  to  speak  softly,”  said  the  old  man.  “  We  will 
not  wake  her.  I  should  be  glad  to  see  her  eyes  again,  and  to 
see  her  smile.  There  is  a  smile  upon  her  young  face  now,  but 
it  is  fixed  and  changeless.  I  would  have  it  come  and  go. 
That  shall  be  in  Heaven’s  good  time.  We  will  not  wake  her.” 

“  Let  us  not  talk  of  her  in  her  sleep,  but  as  she  used  to  be 
when  you  were  journeying  together,  far  away — as  she  was  at 
home,  in  the  old  house  from  which  you  fled  together — as  she 
was,  in  the  old  cheerful  time,”  said  the  schoolmaster. 

“  She  was  always  cheerful — very  cheerful,”  cried  the  old  man, 
looking  steadfastly  at  him.  “  There  was  ever  something  mild 
and  quiet  about  her,'  I  remember,  from  the  first ;  but  she  was 
of  a  happy  nature.” 

“We  have  heard  you  say,”  pursued  the  schoolmaster,  “  that 
in  this  and  in  all  goodness,  she  was  like  her  mother.  You  can 
think  of  and  remember  her  ?  ” 

He  maintained  his  steadfast  look,  but  gave  no  answer. 

“  Or  even  one  before  her,”  said  the  bachelor.  “  It  is  many 
years  ago,  and  affliction  makes  the  time  longer,  but  you  have 
not  forgotten  her  whose  death  contributed  to  make  this  child  so 
dear  to  you,  even  before  yon  knew  her  worth,  or  could  read  her 
heart  ?  Say  that  you  could  carry  back  your  thoughts  to  very 

distant  days — to  the  time  of  your,  early  life — when,  unlike  this 

* 

fair  flower,  you  did  not  pass  your  youth' alone.  Say  that  you 
could  remember,  long  ago,  another  child  who  loved  you  dear- 


LIFE’S  SHADOWS. 


295 


ly,  you  being  but  a  child  yourself.  Say  that  you  had  a  brother, 
long  forgotten,  long  unseen,  long  separated  from  you,  who  now, 
at  last,  in  your  utmost  need,  came  back  to  comfort  and  console 
you — ■” 

“  To  be  to  you  what  you  were  once  to  him,”  cried  the  younger, 
falling  on  his  knee  before  him  ;  “  to  repay  your  old  affection, 
brother  dear,  by  constant  care,  solicitude,  and  love  ;  to  be,  at 
your  right  hand,  what  he  has  never  ceased  to  be  when  oceans 
rolled  between  us ;  to  call  to  witness  his  unchanging  truth  and 
mindfulness  of  by-gone  days,  whole  years  of  desolation.  Give 
me  but  one  word  of  recognition,  brother — and  never — no  never, 
in  the  brightest  moment  of  our  youngest  days,  when,  poor  silly 
boys,  we  thought  to  pass  our  lives  together — have  we  been  half 
as  dear  and  precious  to  each  other  as  we  shall  be  from  this 
time  hence  !  ” 

The  old  man  looked  from  face  to  face,  and  his  lips  moved ; 
but  no  sound  came  from  them  in  reply.  . 

“  If  we  were  knit  together  then/’  pursued  the  younger  brother, 
“  what  will  be  the  bond  between  us  now  !  Our  love  and  fel¬ 
lowship  began  in  childhood,  when  life  was  all  before  us,  and 
will  be  resumed  when  we  have  proved  it,  and  are  but  children 
at  the  last.  As  many  restless  spirits,  who  have  hunted  fortune, 
fame,  or  pleasure  through  the  world,  retire  in  their  decline  to 
where  they  first  drew  breath,  vainly  seeking  to  be  children  once 
again  before  they  die,  so  we,  less  fortunate  than  they  in  early 
life,  but  happier  in  its  closing  scenes,  will  set  up  our  rest  again 
among  our  boyish  haunts,  and  going  home  with  no  hope  realized 
that  had  its  growth  in  manhood — carrying  back  nothing  that 
we  brought  away,  but  our  old  yearnings  to  each  other — saving 
no  fragment  from  the  wreck  of  life,  but  that  which  first  endeared 
it — may  be,  indeed,  but  children,  as  at  first.  And  even,”  he 
added,  in  an  altered  voice,  “  even  if  what  I  dread  to  name  has 
come  to  pass — even  if  that  be  so,  or  is  to  be  (which  Heaven 
forbid  and  spare  us  !) — still,  dear  brother,  we  are  not  apart,  and 
have  that  comfort  in  our  great  affliction.” 

By  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had  drawn  back  towards  the 


296 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


inner  chamber,  while  these  words  were  spoken.  He  pointed 
there,  as  he  replied,  with  trembling  lips. 

“  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her.  You  never 
will  do  that — never  while  I  have  life.  I  have  no  relative  or 
friend  but  her — I  never  had — I  never  will  have.  She  is  all  in  all 
to  me.  It  is  too  late  to  part  us  now.” 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to  her  as  he 
went,  he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were  left  behind 
drew  close  together,  and  after  a  few  whispered  words — not  un¬ 
broken  by  emotion,  or  easily  uttered — followed  him.  They 
moved  so  gently  that  their  footsteps  made  no  noise  ;  but  there 
were  sobs  from  among  the  group,  and  sounds  of  grief  and 
mourning. 

For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her  little  bed,  she  lay  at 
rest.  The  solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free  from 
trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a  creature 
fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the  breath  of  life  ; 
not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered  death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  winter  ber¬ 
ries  and  green  leaves  gathered  in  a  spot  she  had  been  used  to 
favor.  “  When  I  die,  put  near  me  something  that  has  loved 
the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it  always.”  Those  were  her 
words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was  dead. 
Her  little  bird — a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger 
would  have  crushed — was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage  ;  and  the 
strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and  motionless  for¬ 
ever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferings,  and 
fatigues  ?  All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her,  but 
peace  and  perfect  happiness  were  born,  imaged  in  her  tranquil 
beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this  change. 
Yes.  The  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same  sweet  face  ; 
it  had  passed,  like  a  dream,  through  haunts  of  misery  and  care ; 


LIFE'S  SHADOWS. 


297 


at  the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on  the  summer  evening, 
before  the  furnace  fire  upon  the  cold  wet  night,  at  the  still  bed¬ 
side  of  the  dying  boy,  there  had  been  the  same  mild,  lovely 
look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in  their  majesty  after 
death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  had  the  small 
hand  tight  folded  to  his  breast  for  warmth.  It  was  the  hand 
she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last  smile — the  hand  that 
led  him  on  through  all  their  wanderings.  Ever  and  anon  he 
pressed  it  to  his  lips ;  then  hugged  it  to  his  breast  again, 
murmuring  that  it  was  warmer  now ;  and,  as  he  said  it,  he 
looked,  in  agony,  to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if  imploring 
them  to  help  her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  it.  The  ancient 
rooms  she  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while  her  own  was 
waning  fast — the  garden  she  had  tended — the  eyes  she  had  glad¬ 
dened — the  noiseless  haunts  of  many  a  thoughtful  hour — the 
paths  she  had  trodden  as  it  were  but  yesterday— -could  know 
her  nevermore. 

“It  is  not,”  said  the  old  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down  to 
kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  and  gave  his  tears  free  vent,  “it  is  not 
on  earth  that  Heaven’s  justice  ends.  Think  what  earth  is, 
compared  with  the  World  to  which  her  young  spirit  has  winged 
its  early  flight;  and  say,  if  one  deliberate  wish  expressed  in 
solemn  terms  above  this  bed  could  call  her  back  to  life,  which 
of  us  would  utter  it  1  ” 


13* 


298 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


PROMISCUOUS. 

- o - 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

FROM  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 

ppO  any  one  acquainted  with  these  points  of  the  domestic 
X  economy  of  the  establishment,  and  conversant  with  the 
admirable  regulation  of  Mr.  Pickwick’s  mind,  his  appearance 
and  behavior  on  the  morning  previous  to  that  which  had  been 
fixed  upon  for  the  journey  to  Eatanswill,  would  have  been  most 
mysterious  and  unaccountable.  He  paced  the  room  to  and  fro 
with  hurried  steps,  popped  his  head  out  of  the  window  at  inter- 
vals  of  about  three  minutes  each,  constantly  referred  to  his 
watch,  and  exhibited  many  other  manifestations  of  impatience 
very  unusual  with  him.  It  was  evident  that  something  of  great 
importance  was  in  contemplation,  but  what  that 'something  was, 
not  even  Mrs.  Bardell  herself  had  been  enabled  to  discover. 

“  Mrs.  Bardell,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  last,  as  that  amiable 
female  approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of 
the  apartment — 

“  Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

“  Your  little  boy  is  a  very  long  time  gone.” 

“Why  it’s  a  good  long  way  to  the  Borough,  sir,”  remonstra¬ 
ted  Mrs.  Bardell. 

“Ah,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “very  true;  so  it  is.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed  into  silence,  and  Mrs.  Bardell  re¬ 
sumed  her  dusting. 

“Mrs.  Bardell,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  the  expiration  of  a 
few  minutes. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


299 


“  Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again. 

“  Do  you  think  it  much  greater  expense  to  keep  two  people, 
than  to  keep  one  ?  ” 

“La,  Mr.  Pickwick,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  coloring  up  to  the 
very  border  of  her  cap,  as  she  fancied  she  observed  a  species 
of  matrimonial  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  her  lodger ;  “  La,  Mr. 
Pickwick,  what  a  question  !  ” 

“  Well,  but  do  you  ?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  That  depends — ”  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching  the  duster 
very  near  to  Mr.  Pickwick’s- elbow,  which  was  planted  on  the 
table — “that  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  person,  you  know,*" 
Mr.  Pickwick ;  and  whether  it’s  a  saving  and  careful  person, 
sir.” 

“ That’s  very  true,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “but  the  person  I 
have  in  my  eye  [here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Bardell]  I 
think  possesses  these  qualities ;  and  has,  moreover,  a  consider¬ 
able  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of  sharpness, 
Mrs.  Bardell ;  which  may  be  of  material  use  to  me.” 

“La,  Mr.  Pickwick,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  the  crimson  rising 
to  her  cap-border  again. 

“  I  do,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing  energetic,  as  was  his 
wont  in  speaking  of  a  subject  which  interested  him,  “I  do,  in¬ 
deed  ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Bardell,  I  have  made  up 
my  mind.”  / 

“  Dear  me,  sir,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell. 

“You’ll  think  it  very  strange  now,”  said  the  amiable  Mr. 
Pickwick,  with  a  good-humored  glance  at  his  companion,  “  that 
I  never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never  even  men¬ 
tioned  it,  till  I  sent  your  little  boy  out  this  morning — eh  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long  wor¬ 
shipped  Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance,  but  here  she  was,  all  at 
once,  raised  to  a  pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and  most  ex¬ 
travagant  hopes  had  never  dared  to  aspire.  Mr.  Pickwick  was 
going  to  propose— a  deliberate  plan,  too — sent  her  little  boy 
to  the  Borough,  to  get  him  out  of  the  way — how  thoughtful — 
how  considerate  ! 


3°° 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“Well,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “what  do  you  think  ?” 

“  Oh,  Mr.  Pickwick,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with  agita¬ 
tion,  “you’re  very  kind,  sir.” 

“  It’ll  save  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  won’t  it?”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“  Oh,  I  never  thought  anything  of  the  trouble,  sir,”  replied 
Mrs.  Bardell;  “and,  of  course  I  should  take  more  trouble  to 
please  you  then,  than  ever  ;  but  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick,  to  have  so  much  consideration  for  my  loneliness.” 

“Ah,  to  be  sure,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  “  I  never  thought  of 
that.  When  I  am  in  town  you’ll  always  have  somebody  to  sit 
with  you.  To  be  sure,  so  you  will.” 

“  I’m  sure  I  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  woman,”  said  Mrs. 
Bardell. 

“  And  your  little  boy,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Bless  his  heart !  ”  interposed  Mrs.  Bardell,  with  a  maternal 
sob. 

“  He,  too,  will  have  a  companion,”  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick, 
“a  lively  one,  who’ll  teach  him,  I’ll  be  bound,  more  tricks  in  a 
week  than  he  would  ever  learn  in  a  year.”  And  Mr.  Pickwick 
smiled  placidly. 

“  Oh  you  dear — ”  said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

Mr.  Pickwick  started. 

“  Oh  you  kind,  good,  playful  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell :  and 
without  more  ado  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  flung  her  arms 
round  Mr.  Pickwick’s  neck,  with  a  cataract  of  tears  and  a 
chorus  of  sobs. 

“  Bless  my  soul,”  cried  the  astonished  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  “Mrs. 
Bardell,  my  good  woman — dear  me,  what  a  situation — pray 
consider. — Mrs.  Bardell,  don’t — if  anybody  should  come — ” 

“Oh,  let  them  come,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  frantically; 
“  I’ll  never  leave  you — dear,  kind,  good  soul ;”  and,  with  these 
words,  Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter. 

“  Mercy  upon  me,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  struggling  violently, 
“  I  hear  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don’t,  don’t,  there’s 
a  good  creature,  don’t.”  But  entreaty  and  remonstrance  were 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3QI 


alike  unavailing ;  for  Mrs.  Bardell  had  fainted  in  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick’s  arms ;  and.  before  he  could  gain  time  to  deposit  her  on 
a  chair,  Master  Bardell  entered  the  room,  ushering  in  Mr.  Tup- 
man,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snodgrass. 

Mr.  Pickwick  was  struck  motionless  and  speechless.  He 
stood  with  his  lovely  burden  in  his  arms,  gazing  vacantly  on 
the  countenances  of  his  friends,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at 
recognition  or  explanation.  They  in  their  turn,  stared  at  him, 
and  Master  Bardell  in  his  turn  stared  at  everybody. 

Pdie  astonishment  of  the  Pickwickians  was  so  absorbing,  and 
the  perplexity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extreme,  that  they  might 
have  remained  in  exactly  the  same  relative  situations  until  the 
suspended  animation  of  the  lady  was  restored,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  most  beautiful  and  touching  expression  of  filial  affection 
on  the  part  of  her  youthful  son.  Clad  in  a  tight  suit  of 
corduroy,  spangled  with  brass  buttons  of  a  very  considerable 
size,  he  at  first  stood  at  the  door  astounded  and  uncertain ; 
but  by  degrees  the  impression  that  his  mother  must  have 
suffered  some  personal  damage,  pervaded  his  partially  de¬ 
veloped  mind,  and  considering  Mr.  Pickwick  as  the  aggressor, 
he  set  up  an  appalling  and  semi-earthly  kind  of  howling,  and 
butting  forward  with  his  head,  commenced  assailing  that  im¬ 
mortal  gentleman  about  the  back  and  legs,  with  such  blows 
and  pinches  as  the  strength  of  his  arm  and  the  violence  of  his 
excitement  allowed. 

“  Take  this  villain  away,”  said  the  agonized  Mr.  Pickwick, 
“he’s  mad.” 

“What  is  the  matter?”  said  the  three  tongue-tied  Pick¬ 
wickians. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  pettishly.  “  Take 
away  the  boy”  (here  Mr.  Winkle  carried  the  interesting  boy, 
screaming  and  struggling,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment). 
“Now,  help  me,  lead  this  woman  downstairs.” 

“  Oh,  I  am  better  now,”  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  faintly. 

“  Let  me  lead  you  downstairs,”  said  the  ever  gallant  Mr. 
Tupman. 


302 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Thank  you,  sir — thank  you,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell, 
hysterically.  And  downstairs  she  was  led  accordingly,  accom¬ 
panied  by  her  affectionate  son. 

“  I  cannot  conceive — ”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  when  his  friend 
returned — “I  cannot  conceive  what  has  been  the  matter  with 
that  woman.  I  had  merely  announced  to  her  my  intention  of 
keeping  a  man-servant,  when  she  fell  into  the  extraordinary 
paroxysm  in  which  you  found  her.  Very  extraordinary  thing.” 

IT  was  evening.  Isabella  and  Emily  had  strolled  out  with 
Mr.  Trundle;  the  deaf  old  lady  had  fallen  asleep  in  her 
chair ;  the  snoring  of  the  fat  boy  penetrated  in  a  low  and 
monotonous  sound  from  the  distant  kitchen ;  the  buxom  ser¬ 
vants  were  lounging  at  the  side-door,  enjoying  the  pleasant¬ 
ness  of  the  hour,  and  the  delights  of  a  flirtation,  on  first  princi¬ 
ples,  with  certain  unwieldy  animals  attached  to  the  farm ;  and 
there  sat  the  interesting  pair,  uncared  for  by  all,  caring  for 
none,  and  dreaming  only  of  themselves — there  they  sat,  in  short, 
like  a  pair  of  carefully  folded  kid-gloves — bound  up  in  each 
other. 

“  I  have  forgotten  my  flowers,”  said  the  spinster  aunt. 

“  Water  them  now,”  said  Mr.  Tupman,  in  accents  of  per¬ 
suasion. 

“  You  will  take  cold  in  the  evening  air,”  urged  the  spinster 
aunt,  affectionately. 

“  No,  no,”  said  Mr.  Tupman  rising ;  “  it  will  do  me  good. 
Let  me  accompany  you.” 

The  lady  paused  to  adjust  the  sling  in  which  the  left  arm  of 
the  youth  was  placed,  and  taking  his  right  arm  led  him  to  the 
garden. 

There  was  a  bower  at  the  farther  end,  with  honeysuckle, 
jessamine,  and  creeping  plants — one  of  those  sweet  retreats 
which  humane  men  erect  for  the  accommodation  of  spiders. 

The  spinster  aunt  took  up  a  large  watering-pot  which  lay  in 
one  corner,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  arbor.  Mr.  Tupman 
detained  her,  and  drew  her  to  a  seat  beside  him. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3°3 


“  Miss  Wardle  !  ”  said  he. 

The"  spinster  aunt  trembled,  till  some  pebbles,  which  had 
accidentally  found  their  way  into  the  large  watering-pot,  shook 
like  an  infant’s  rattle. 

“Miss  Wardle,”  said  Mr.  Tupman,  “you  are  an  angel.” 

“  Mr.  Tupman  !  ”  exclaimed  Rachael,  blushing  as  red  as 

the  watering-pot  itself. 

# 

“  Nay,”  said  the  eloquent  Pickwickian — “  I  know  it  but  too 
well.” 

“  All  women  are  angels,  they  say,”  murmured  the  lady,  play¬ 
fully. 

“  Then  what  can  you  be  ;  or,  to  what,  without  presumption, 
can  I  compare  you?”  replied  Mr.  Tupman.  “Where  v/as 
the  woman  ever  seen  who  resembled  you  ?  Where  else  could 
I  hope  to  find  so  rare  a  combination  of  excellence  and  beauty? 
Where  else  could  I  seek  to — Oh!”  Here  Mr.  Tupman 
paused,  and  pressed  the  hand  which  clasped  the  handle  of  the 
happy  watering-pot. 

The  lady  turned  aside  her  head.  “  Men  are  such  deceivers,” 
she  softly  whispered. 

“They  are,  they  are,”  ejaculated  Mr.  Tupman;  “but  not 
all  men.  There  lives  at  least  one  being  who  can  never  change 
— one  being  who  would  be  content  to  devote  his  whole  exist¬ 
ence  to  your  happiness — who  lives  but  in  your  eyes — who 
breathes  but  in  your  smiles — who  bears  the  heavy  burden  of 
life  itself  only  for  you.” 

“  Could  such  an  individual  be  found,”  said  the  lady — 

“  But  he  can  be  found,”  said  the  ardent  Mr.  Tupman,  inter¬ 
posing.  “  He  is  found.  He  is  here,  Miss  Wardle.”  And  ere 
the  lady  was  aware  of  his  intention,  Mr.  Tupman  had  sunk 
upon  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

“Mr.  Tupman,  rise,”  said  Rachael. 

“Never!”  was  the  valorous  reply.  “Oh,  Rachael!” — 
He  seized  her  passive  hand,  and  the  watering-pot  fell  to  the 
ground,  as  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips — “  Oh,  Rachael !  say  you 
love  me.” 


304 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Mr.  Tupman,”  said  the  spinster  aunt,  with  averted  head — 
“  I  can  hardly  speak  the  words,  but — but — you  are  not  wholly 
indifferent  to  me.” 

Mr.  Tupman  no  sooner  heard  this  avowal,  than  he  proceeded 
to  do  what  his  enthusiastic  emotions  prompted,  and  what,  for 
aught  we  know  (for  we  are  but  little  acquainted  with  such 
matters),  people  so  circumstanced  always  do.  He  jumped  up, 
and  throwing  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  the  spinster  aunt, 
imprinted  upon  her  lips  numerous  kisses,  which,  after  a  due 
show  of  struggling  and  resistance,  she  received  so  passively, 
that  there  is  no  telling  how  many  more  Mr.  Tupman  might 
have  bestowed,  if  the  lady  had  not  given  a  very  unaffected  start, 
and  exclaimed  in  an  affrighted  tone — 

“  Mr.  Tupman,  we  are  observed  ! — we  are  discovered  !  ” 

Mr.  Tupman  looked  round.  There  was  the  fat  boy,  per¬ 
fectly  motionless,  with  his  large  circular  eyes  staring  into  the 
arbor,  but  without  the  slightest  expression  on  his  face  that  the 
most  expert  physiognomist  could  have  referred  to  astonish¬ 
ment,  curiosity,  or  any  other  known  passion  that  agitates  the 
human  breast.  Mr.  Tupman  gazed  on  the  fat  boy,  and  the  fat 
boy  stared  at  him;  and  the  longer  Mr.  Tupman  observed  the 
utter  vacancy  of  the  fat  boy’s  countenance,  the  more  con¬ 
vinced  he  became  that  he  either  did  not  know,  or  did  not  un¬ 
derstand,  anything  that  had  been  going  forward.  Under  this 
impression,  he  said  with  great  firmness— 

“  What  do  you  want  here,  sir  ?  ” 

“Supper’s  ready,  sir,”  was  the  prompt  reply. 


TT  fE  want  to  know,”  said  the  little  man,  solemnly; 

V  V  “and  we  ask  the  question  of  you,  in  order  that  we 
may  not  awaken  apprehensions  inside — we  want  to  know  who 
you’ve  got  in  this  house,  at  present  ?” 

“  Who  there  is  in  the  house  !  ”  said  Sam,  in  whose  mind  the 
inmates  were  always  represented  by  that  particular  article  of 
their  costume  which  came  under  his  immediate  superintend- 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3°5 


ence.  “There’s  a  wooden  leg  in  number  six;  there’s  a  pair 
of  Hessians  in  thirteen;  there’s  two  pair  of  halves  in  the  com¬ 
mercial;  there’s  these  here  painted  tops  in  the  snuggery  inside 
the  bar ;  and  five  more  tops  in  the  coffee-room.” 

“  Nothing  more  ?”  said  the  little  man. 

“  Stop  a  bit,”  replied  Sam,  suddenly  recollecting  himself. 
“  Yes  ;  there’s  a  pair  of  Wellingtons  a  good  deal  worn  and  a 
pair  o’  lady’s  shoes,  in  number  five.” 

“  What  sort  of  shoes  ?  ”  hastily  inquired  Wardle,  who,  to¬ 
gether  with  Mr.  Pickwick,  had  been  lost  in  bewilderment  at  the 
singular  catalogue  of  visitors. 

“  Country  make,”  replied  Sam. 

“  Any  maker’s  name  ?” 

“  Brown.” 

“  Where  of?  ” 

“  Muggleton.” 

“  It  is  them,”  exclaimed  Wardle.  “  By  heavens,  we’ve 
found  them.” 

“Hush!”  said  Sam.  “ The  Wellingtons  has  gone  to  Doc¬ 
tors’  Commons.” 

“  No,”  said  the  little  man. 

“Yes,  for  a  license.” 

“  We’re  in  time,”  exclaimed  Wardle.  “  Show  us  the  room  ; 
not  a  moment  is  to  be  lost.” 

“Pray,  my  dear  sir — pray,”  said  the  little  man;  “caution, 
caution.”  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  red-silk  purse,  and  looked 
very  hard  at  Sam  as  he  drew  out  a  sovereign. 

Sam  grinned  expressively. 

“  Show  us  into  the  room  at  once,  without  announcing  us,” 
said  the  little  man,  “and  it’s  yours.” 


u  T  SHOULD  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  any  advice, 
X  sir,”  said  Mr.  Magnus,  taking  another  look  at  the  clock, 
the  hand  of  which  was  verging  on  the  five  minutes  past. 

“  Well,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  the  profound  solem- 


3°6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


nity  with  which  that  great  man  could,  when  he  pleased,  render 
his  remarks  so  deeply  impressive  :  “  I  should  commence,  sir, 
with  a  tribute  to  the  lady’s  beauty  and  excellent  qualities ; 
from  them,  sir,  I  should  diverge  to  my  own  unwortliiness.” 

“Very  good,”  said  Mr.  Magnus. 

“  Unworthiness  for  her  only,  mind,  sir,”  resumed  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick  ;  “for  to  show  that  I  was  not  wholly  unworthy,  sir,  I 
should  take  a  brief  review  of  my  past  life,  and  present  condi¬ 
tion.  I  should  argue,  by  analogy,  that  to  anybody  else,  I  must 
be  a  very  desirable  object.  I  should  then  expatiate  on  the 
warmth  of  my  love,  and  the  depth  of  my  devotion.  Perhaps  I 
might  then  be  tempted  to  seize  her  hand.” 

“Yes,  I  see,”  said  Mr.  Magnus;  “that  would  be  a  very 
great  point.” 

“  I  should  then,  sir,”  continued  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing 
warmer  as  the  subject  presented  itself  in  more  glowing  colors 
before  him  :  “  I  should,  then,  sir,  come  to  the  plain  and  simple 
question,  4  Will  you  have  me  ?  ’  I  think  I  am  justified  in  as¬ 
suming  that  upon  this,  she  would  turn  away  her  head.” 

“  You  think  that  maybe  taken  for  granted?”  said  Mr.  Mag¬ 
nus ;  “because  if  she  did  not  do  that  at  the  right  place,  it 
would  be  embarrassing.” 

“  I  think  she  would,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  “  Upon  this,  sir, 
I  should  squeeze  her  hand,  and  I  think — I  think,  Mr.  Magnus 
— that  after  I  had  done  that,  supposing  there  was  no  refusal,  I 
should  gently  draw  away  the  handkerchief,  which  my  slight 
knowledge  of  human  nature  •  leads  me  to  suppose  the  lady 
would  be  applying  to  her  eyes  at  the  moment,  and  steal  a  re¬ 
spectful  kiss.  I  think  I  should  kiss  her,  Mr.  Magnus  ;  and  at 
this  particular  point,  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  if  the  lady 
were  going  to  take  me  at  all,  she  would  murmur  into  my  ears  a 
bashful  acceptance.” 

Mr.  Magnus  started  ;  gazed  on  Mr.  Pickwick’s  intelligent 
face,  for  a  short  time  in  silence  ;  and  then  (the  dial  pointing  to 
the  ten  minutes  past)  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and 
rushed  desperately  from  the  room. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3°  7 


Mr.  Pickwick  had  taken  a  few  strides  to  and  fro  ;  and  the 
small  hand  of  the  clock  following  the  latter  part  of  his  example, 
had  arrived  at  the  figure  which  indicates  the  half  hour,  when  the 
door  suddenly  opened.  He  turned  round  to  meet  Mr.  Peter 
Magnus,  and  encountered  in  his  stead  the  joyous  face  of  Mr. 
Tupman,  the  serene  countenance  of  Mr.  Winkle,  and  the  intel¬ 
lectual  lineaments  of  Mr.  Snodgrass.  As  Mr.  Pickwick  greeted 
them,  Mr.  Peter  Magnus  tripped  into  the  room. 

“  My  friends,  the  gentleman  I  was  speaking  of — Mr.  Mag¬ 
nus,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

t(  Your  servant,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr.  Magnus,  evidently  in  a 
high  state  of  excitement ;  “  Mr.  Pickwick,  allow  me  to  speak 
to  you  one  moment,  sir.” 

As  he  said  this,  Mr.  Magnus  harnessed  his  forefinger  to  Mr. 
Pickwick’s  button-hole,  and,  drawing  him  to  a  window  recess, 
said  : 

“  Congratulate  me,  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  I  followed  your  advice  to 
the  very  letter.” 

“  And  it  was  all  correct,  was  it  ?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  It  was,  sir.  Could  not  possibly  have  been  better,”  replied 
Mr.  Magnus.  “  Mr.  Pickwick,  she  is  mine.” 

“  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart,”  replied  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick,  warmly  shaking  his  new  friend  by  the  hand. 

“  You  must  see  her,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Magnus  ;  “this  way,  if  you 
please.  Excuse  us  for  one  instant,  gentlemen.”  Hurrying  on 
in  this  way,  Mr.  Peter  Magnus  drew  Mr.  Pickwick  from  the 
room.  He  paused  at  the  next  door  in  the  passage,  and  tapped 
gently  thereat. 

“  Come  in,”  said  a  female  voice.  And  in  they  went. 

“  Miss  Witherfield,”  said  Mr.  Magnus,  “  allow  me  to  intro¬ 
duce  my  very  particular  friend,  Mr.  Pickwick.  Mr.  Pickwick, 
I  beg  to  make  you  known  to  Miss  Witherfield.” 

The  lady  was  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room.  As  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick  bowed,  he  took  his  spectacles  from  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
and  put  them  on  ;  a  process  which  he  had  no  sooner  gone 
through,  than,  uttering  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  Mr.  Pick- 


3°8 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


wick  retreated  several  paces,  and  the  lady,  with  a  half-sup¬ 
pressed  scream,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  dropped  into  a 
chair ;  whereupon  Mr.  Peter  Magnus  was  stricken  motionless 
on  the  spot,  and  gazed  from  one  to  the  other,  with  a  counte¬ 
nance  expressive  of  the  extremities  of  horror  and  surprise. 

This  certainly  was,  to  all  appearance,  very  unaccountable 
behavior;  but  the  fact  is,  that  Mr.  Pickwick  no  sooner  put  on 
his  spectacles,  than  he  at  once  recognized  in  the  future  Mrs. 
Magnus  the  lady  into  whose  room  he  had  so  unwarrantably  in¬ 
truded  on  the  previous  night ;  and  the  spectacles  had  no  sooner 
crossed  Mr.  Pickwick’s  nose  than  the  lady  at  once  identified 
the  countenance  which  she  had  seen  surrounded  by  all  the 
horrors  of  a  nightcap.  So  the  lady  screamed,  and  Mr.  Pick¬ 
wick  started. 


OW,”  said  War  die,  after  a  substantial  lunch,  with  the 


agreeable  items  of  strong-beer  and  cherry-brandy,  had 


been  done  ample  justice  to,  “what  say  you  to  an  hour  on  the 
ice  ?  we  shall  have  plenty  of  time.” 

“Capital  !”  said  Mr.  Benjamin  Allen. 

“  Prime  !  ”  ejaculated  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer. 

“  You  skate,  of  course,  Winkle  ?”  said  Wardle. 

“  Ye-yes;  oh,  yes,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle.  “  I — I — am  rather 
out  of  practice.” 

“  Oh,  do  skate,  Mr.  Winkle,”  said  Arabella,  “I  like  to  see  it 
so  much.” 

“  Oh,  it  is  so  graceful,”  said  another  young  lady. 

A  third  young  lady  said  it  was  elegant,  and  a  fourth  ex¬ 
pressed  her  opinion  that  it  was  “  swan-like.” 

“  I  should  be  very  happy,  I’m  sure,”  said  Mr.  Winkle,  red¬ 
dening  ;  “but  I  have  no  skates.” 

This  objection  was  at  once  overruled.  Trundle  had  a  couple 
of  pair,  and  the  fat  boy  announced  that  there  were  half  a  dozen 
more  downstairs ;  whereat  Mr.  Winkle  expressed  exquisite 
delight  and  looked  exquisitely  uncomfortable. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


309 


Old  Wardle  led  the  way  to  a  pretty  large  sheet  of  ice ;  and 
the  fat  boy  and  Mr..  Weller,  having  shovelled  and  swept  away 
the  snow  which  had  fallen  on  it  during  the  night,  Mr.  Bob  Saw¬ 
yer  adjusted  his  skates  with  a  dexterity  which  to  Mr.  Winkle 
was  perfectly  marvellous,  and  described  circles  with  his  left  leg, 
and  cut  figures  of  eight,  and  inscribed  upon  the  ice,  without 
once  stopping  for  breath,  a  great  many  other  pleasant  and  as¬ 
tonishing  devices,  to  the  excessive  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Pickwick, 
Mr.  Tupman,  and  the  ladies  ;  which  reached  a  pitch  of  positive 
enthusiasm,  when  old  Wardle  and  Benjamin  Allen,  assisted  by 
the  aforesaid  Bob  Sawyer,  performed  some  mystic  evolutions, 
which  they  called  a  reel. 

All  this  time,  Mr.  Winkle,  with  his  face  and  hands  blue  with 
the  cold,  had  been  forcing  a  gimlet  into  the  soles  of  his  feet, 
and  putting  his  skates  on,  with  the  points  behind,  and  getting 
the  straps  into  a  very  complicated  and  entangled  state,  with  the 
assistance  of  Mr.  Snodgrass,  who  knew  rather  less  about  skates 
than  a  Hindoo.  At  length,  however,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr. 
Weller,  the  unfortunate  skates  were  firmly  screwed  and  buck¬ 
led  on,  and  Mr.  Winkle  was  raised  to  his  feet. 

“Now,  then,  sir,”  said  Sam,  in  an  encouraging  tone;  “off 
with  you,  and  show  ’em  how  to  do  it.” 

“Stop,  Sam,  stop!”  said  Mr.  Winkle,  trembling  violently, 
and  clutching  hold  of  Sam’s  arms  with  the  grasp  of  a  drowning 
man.  “  How  slippery  it  is,  Sam  !  ” 

“  Not  an  uncommon  thing  upon  ice,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
“  Hold  up,  sir  !  ” 

This  last  observation  of  Mr.  Weller’s  bore  reference  to  a 
demonstration  Mr.  Winkle  made  at  the  instant,  of  a  frantic 
desire  to  throw  his  feet  in  the  air,  and  dash  the  back  of  his 
head  on  the  ice. 

“  These — these — are  very  awkward  skates  ;  ain’t  they, 
Sam  ?  ”  inquired  Mr.  Winkle,  staggering. 

“I’m  afeerd  there’s  a  orkard  gen’l’m’n  in ’em,  sir,”  replied 
Sam. 

“  Now,  Winkle,”  cried  Mr.  Pickwick,  quite  unconscious  that 


3*° 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


there  was  anything  the  matter.  “  Come ;  the  ladies  are  all 
anxiety.’’ 

“Yes,  yes,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle,  with  a  ghastly  smile,  “I’m 
coming.” 

“Just  a-goin’  to  begin,”  said  Sam,  endeavoring  to  disengage, 
himself.  “Now,  sir,  start  off!” 

“  Stop  an  instant,  Sam,”  gasped  Mr.  Winkle,  clinging  most 
affectionately  to  Mr.  Weller.  “  I  find  I’ve  got  a  couple  of 
coats  at  home  that  I  don’t  want,  Sam.  You  may  have  them, 
Sam.” 

“  Thank’ ee,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

“  Never  mind  touching  your  hat,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Winkle, 
hastily.  “  You  needn’t  take  your  hand  away  to  do  that.  I 
meant  to  have  given  you  five  shillings  this  morning  for  a  Christ¬ 
mas-box,  Sam.  I’ll  give  it  you  this  afternoon,  Sam.” 

“  You’re  wery  good,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

“  Just  hold  me  at  first,  Sam  ;  will  you  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Winkle. 
“There— that’s  right.  I  shall  soon  get  in  the  way  of  it,  Sam. 
Not  too  fast,  Sam ;  not  too  fast.” 

Mr.  Winkle  stooping  forward,  with  his  body  half  doubled  up, 
was  being  assisted  over  the  ice  by  Mr.  Weller  in  a  very  singular 
and  un-swanlike  manner,  when  Mr.  Pickwick  most  innocently 
shouted  from  the  opposite  bank. 

“  Sam  !  ” 

“Sir?” 

“Here.  I  want  you.” 

“  Let  go,  sir,”  said  Sam.  “  Don’t  you  hear  the  governor  a- 
callin’  ?  Let  go,  sir.” 

With  a  violent  effort,  Mr.  Weller  disengaged  himself  from 
the  grasp  of  the  agonized  Pickwickian,  and,  in  so  doing,  ad¬ 
ministered  a  considerable  impetus  to  the  unhappy  Mr.  Winkle. 
With  an  accuracy  which  no  degree  of  dexterity  or  practice 
could  have  insured,  that  unfortunate  gentleman  bore  swiftly 
down  into  the  centre  of  the  reel,  at  the  very  moment  when  Mr. 
Bob  lawyer  was  performing  a  flourish  of  unparalleled  beauty. 
Mr.  Winkle  struck  wildly  against  him,  and  with  a  loud  crash 


PROMISCUOUS. 


311 


they  both  fell  heavily  down.  Mr.  Pickwick  ran  to  the  spot. 
Bob  Sawyer  had  risen  to  his  feet,  but  Mr.  Winkle  was  far  too 
wise  to  do  anything  of  the  kind,  in  skates.  He  was  seated  on 
the  ice,  making  spasmodic  efforts  to  smile  •  but  anguish  was 
depicted  on  every  lineament  of  his  countenance. 

“Are  you  hurt?'’’  inquired  Mr.  Benjamin  Allen,  with  great 
anxiety. 

“  Not  much,”  said  Mr.  Winkle,  rubbing  his  back  very 
hard. 

“  I  wish  you’d  let  me  bleed  you,”  said  Mr.  Benjamin,  with 
great  eagerness. 

“No,  thank  you,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle  hurriedly. 

“  I  really  think  you  had  better,”  said  Allen. 

“Thank  you,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle  ;  “  I’d  rather  not.” 

*  “What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Pickwick  ?”  inquired  Bob  Sawyer. 

Mr.  Pickwick  was  excited  and  indignant.  He  beckoned  to 
Mr.  Weller,  and  said  in  a  stern  voice,  “  Take  his  skates  off.” 

“  No ;  but  really  I  had  scarcely  begun,”  remonstrated  Mr. 
Winkle. 

“Take  his  skates  off,”  repeated  Mr.  Pickwick  firmly. 

The  command  was  not  to  be  resisted.  Mr.  Winkle  allowed 
Sam  to  obey  it  in  silence. 

“  Lift  him  up,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  Sam  assisted  him  to 
rise. 

Mr.  Pickwick  retired  a  few  paces  apart  from  the  bystanders ; 
and,  beckoning  his  friend  to  approach,  fixed  a  searching  look 
upon  him,  and  uttered  in  a  low  but  distinct  and  emphatic  tone, 
these  remarkable  .words  : 

“You’re  a  humbug,  sir.” 

“  A  what?”  said  Mr.  Winkle,  starting. 

“  A  humbug,  sir.  I  will  speak  plainer,  if  you  wish  it.  An 
impostor,  sir.” 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Pickwick  turned  slowly  on  his  heel, 
and  rejoined  his  friends. 

While  Mr.  Pickwick  was  delivering  himself  of  the  sentiment 
just  recorded,  Mr.  Weller  and  the  fat  boy,  having  by  their  joint 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


O  - 

endeavors  cut  out  a  slide,  were  exercising  themselves  there¬ 
upon,  in  a  very  masterly  and  brilliant  manner.  Sam  Weller, 
in  particular,  was  displaying  that  beautiful  feat  of  fancy-sliding 
which  is  currently  denominated  “knocking  at  the  cobbler’s 
door,”  and  which  is  achieved  by  skimming  over  the  ice  on  one 
foot,  and  occasionally  giving  a  postman’s  knock  upon  it  with 
the  other.  It  was  a  good  long  slide,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  motion  which  Mr.  Pickwick,  who  was  very  cold  with 
standing  still,  could  not  help  envying. 

“It  looks  a  nice  warm  exercise  that,  doesn’t  it?”  he  in¬ 
quired  of  Wardle,  when  that  gentleman  was  thoroughly  out  of 
breath,  by  reason  of  the  indefatigable  manner  in  which  he  had 
converted  his  legs  into  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  drawn  com¬ 
plicated  problems  on  the  ice. 

“Ah,  it  does  indeed,”  replied  Wardle.  “  Do  you  slide  ?  ” 

“  I  used  to  do  so,  on  the  gutters,  when  I  was  a  boy,”  replied 
Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Try  it  now,”  said  Wardle. 

“  Oh,  do  please,  Mr.  Pickwick,”  cried  all  the  ladies. 

“  I  should  be  very  happy  to  afford  you  any  amusement,” 
replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  “but  I  haven’t  done  such  a  thing  these 
thirty  years.” 

“Pooh!  pooh!  Nonsense!”  said  Wardle,  dragging  off  his 
skates  with  the  impetuosity  which  characterized  all  his  pro¬ 
ceedings.  “  Here  ;  I’ll  keep  you  company  ;  come  along  !  ” 
And  away  went  the  good-tempered  old  fellow  down  the  slide, 
with  a  rapidity  which  came  very  close  upon  Mr.  Weller,  and 
beat  the  fat  boy  all  to  nothing. 

Mr.  Pickwick  paused,  considered,  pulled  off  his  gloves  and 
put  them  in  his  hat  :  took  two  or  three  short  runs,  balked 
himself  as  often,  and  at  last  took  another  run,  and  went  slowly 
and  gravely  down  the  slide,  with  his  feet  about  a  yard  and  a 
quarter  apart,  amidst  the  gratified  shouts  of  all  the  spectators. 

“  Keep  the  pot  a-bilin’,  sir !  ”  said  Sam ;  and  down  went 
Wardle  again,  and  then  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  then  Sam,  and  then 
Mr.  Winkle,  and  then  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer,  and  then  the  fat  boy, 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3T3 


and  then  Mr.  Snodgrass,  following  closely  upon  each  other’s 
heels,  and  running  after  each  other  with  as  much  eagerness  as 
if  all  their  future  prospects  in  life  depended  on  their  expedition. 

It  was  the  most  intensely  interesting  thing,  to  observe  the 
manner  in  which  Mr.  Pickwick  performed  his  share  in  the 
ceremony ;  to  watch  the  torture  of  anxiety  with  which  he 
viewed  the  person  behind,  gaining  upon  him  at  the  imminent 
hazard  of  tripping  him  up ;  to  see  him  gradually  expend  the 
painful  force  he  had  put  on  at  first,  and  turn  slowly  round  on 
the  slide,  with  his  face  towards  the  point  from  which  he  had 
started ;  to  contemplate  the  playful  smile  which  mantled  on 
his  face  when  he  had  accomplished  the  distance,  and  the 
eagerness  with  which  he  turned  round  when  he  had  done  so, 
and  ran  after  his  predecessor  ;  his  black  gaiters  tripping  pleas¬ 
antly  through  the  snow,  and  his  eyes  beaming  cheerfulness  and 
gladness  through  his  spectacles.  And  when  he  was  knocked 
down  (which  happened,  upon  the  average,  every  third  round),  it 
was  the  most  invigorating  sight  that  can  possibly  be  imagined, 
to  behold  him  gather  up  his  hat,  gloves,  and  handkerchief,  with 
a  glowing  countenance,  and  resume  his  station  in  the  rank, 
with  an  ardor  and  enthusiasm  that  nothing  could  abate. 

The  sport  was  at  its  height,  the  sliding  was  at  the  quickest, 
the  laughter  was  at  the  loudest,  when  a  sharp,  smart  crack  was 
heard.  There  was  a  quick  rush  towards  the  bank,  a  wild 
scream  from  the  ladies,  and  a  shout  from  Mr.  Tupman.  A 
large  mass  of  ice  disappeared ;  the  water  bubbled  up  over  it ; 
Mr.  Pickwick’s  hat,  gloves,  and  handkerchief  were  floating  on 
the  surface  ;  and  this  was  all  of  Mr.  Pickwick  that  anvbody 

y  j  J 

could  see. 

Dismay  and  anguish  were  depicted  on  every  countenance  ; 
the  males  turned  pale,  and  the  females  fainted ;  Mr.  Snodgrass 
and  Mr.  Winkle  grasped  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  gazed  at 
the  spot  where  their  leader  had  gone  down,  with  frenzied 
eagerness;  while  Mr.  Tupman,  by  way  of  rendering  the 
promptest  assistance,  and  at  the  same  time  conveying  to  any 
person  who  might  be  within  hearing,  the  clearest  possible 
14 


3H 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


notion  of  the  catastrophe,  ran  off  across  the  country  at  his 
utmost  speed,  screaming  “  Fire  !  ”  with  all  his  might. 

It  was  at  this  moment,  when  old  Wardle  and  Sam  Weller 
were  approaching  the  hole  with  cautious  steps,  and  Mr.  Ben¬ 
jamin  Allen  was  holding  a  hurried  consultation  with  Mr.  Bob 
Sawyer,  on  the  advisability  of  bleeding  the  company  generally, 
as  an  improving  little  bit  of  professional  practice — it  was  at 
this  very  moment,  that  a  face,  head,  and  shoulders,  emerged 
from  beneath  the  water,  and  disclosed  the  features  and  specta¬ 
cles  of  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“  Keep  yourself  up  for  an  instant — for  only  one  instant !  ” 
bawled  Mr.  Snodgrass. 

“Yes,  do;  let  me  implore  you— for  my  sake!”  roared  Mr. 
Winkle,  deeply  affected.  The  adjuration  was  rather  unneces¬ 
sary  ;  the  probability  being,  that  if  Mr.  Pickwick  had  declined 
to  keep  himself  up  for  anybody’s  else’s  sake,  it  would  have 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  as  well  do  so  for  his  own. 

“  Do  you  feel  the  bottom  there,  old  fellow  ?  ”  said  Wardle. 

“Yes,  certainly,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  wringing  the  water 
from  his  head  and  face,  and  gasping  for  breath.  “  I  fell  upon 
my  back.  I  couldn’t  get  on  my  feet  at  first.” 

1  The  clay  upon  so  much  of  Mr.  Pickwick’s  coat  as  was  yet 
visible,  bore  testimony  to  the  accuracy  of  this  statement ;  and 
as  the  fears  of  the  spectators  were  still  further  relieved  by  the 
fat  boy’s  suddenly  recollecting  that  the  water  was  nowhere 
more  than  five  feet  deep,  prodigies  of  valor  were  performed  to 
get  him  out.  After  a  vast  quantity  of  splashing,  and  cracking, 
and  struggling,  Mr.  Pickwick  was  at  length  fairly  extricated 
from  his  unpleasant  position,  and  once  more  stood  on  dry 
land. 

“  Oh,  he’ll  catch  his  death  of  cold,”  said  Emily. 

“Dear  old  thing!”  said  Arabella.  “Let  me  wrap  this 
shawl  round  you,  Mr.  Pickwick.” 

“  Ah,  that’s  the  best  thing  you  can  do,”  said  Wardle ;  “  and 
when  you’ ye  got  it  on,  run  home  as  fast  as  your  legs  can 
'  carry  you,  and  jump  into  bed  directly.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3*5 


A  dozen  shawls  were  offered  on  the  instant.  Three  or  four 
of  the  thickest  having  been  selected,  Mr.  Pickwick  was 
wrapped  up,  and  started  off,  under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Weller : 
presenting  the  singular  phenomenon  of  an  elderly  gentleman, 
dripping  wet,  and  without  a  hat,  with,  his  arms  bound  down  to 
his  sides,  skimming  over  the  ground,  without  any  clearly  de¬ 
fined  purpose,  at  the  rate  of  six  good  English  miles  an  hour. 

But  Mr.  Pickwick  cared  not  for  appearances  in  such  an 
extreme  case,  and  urged  on  by  Sam  Weller,  he  kept  at  the 
very  top  of  his  speed  until  he  reached  the  door  of  Manor 
Farm,  where  Mr.  Tupman  had  arrived  some  five  minutes  before, 
and  had  frightened  the  old  lady  into  palpitations  of  the  heart 
by  impressing  her  with  the  unalterable  conviction  that  tire 
kitchen  chimney  was  on  fire — a  calamity  which  always  pre¬ 
sented  itself  in  glowing  colors  to  the  old  lady’s  mind,  when 
anybody  about  her  evinced  the  smallest  agitation. 

Mr.  Pickwick  paused  not  an  instant  until  he  was  snug  in  bed. 
Sam  Weller  lighted  a  blazing  fire  in  the  room,  and  took  up  his 
dinner;  a  bowl  of  punch  was  carried  up  afterwards,  and  a 
grand  carouse  held  in  honor  of  his  safety.  Old  Wardle  would 
not  hear  of  his  rising,  so  they  made  the  bed  the  chair,  and  Mr. 
Pickwick  presided.  A  second  and  a  third  Bowl  were  ordered 
in,  and  when  Mr.  Pickwick  awroke  next  morning,  there  was 
not  a  symptom  of  rheumatism  about  him  ;  which  proves,  as 
Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  very  justly  observed,  that  there  is  nothing  like 
hot  punch  in  such  cases ;  and  that  if  ever  hot  punch  did  fail  to 
act  as  a  preventive,  it  was  merely  because  the  patient  fell  into 
the  vulgar  error  of  not  taking  enough  of  it. 


FROM  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 


U  I  ^  DUCATION. — At  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers’s  Academy^ 
1 v  Dotheboys’  Hall,  at  the  delightful  village  of  Dothe- 
boys,  near  Greta  Bridge  in  Yorkshire,  Youth  are  boarded, 


3l6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


clothed,  booked,  furnished  with  pocket-money,  provided  with 
all  necessaries,  instructed  in  all  languages  living  and  dead, 
mathematics,  orthography,  geometry,  astronomy,  trigonometry, 
the  use*  of  the  globes,  algebra,  single-stick  (if  required),  writing, 
arithmetic,  fortification,  and  every  other  branch  of  classical 
literature.  Terms,  twenty  guineas  per  annum.  No  extras,  no 
vacation,  and  diet  unparalleled.  Mr.  Squeers  is  in  town,  and 
attends  daily  from  one  till  four,  at  the  Saracen’s  Head,  Snow 
Hill.  N.B.  An  able  assistant  wanted.  Annual  salary,  ^5. 
A  Master  of  Arts  would  be  preferred.” 


KATE  might  have  said  that  mourning  is  sometimes  the 
coldest  wear  which  mortals  can  assume ;  that  it  not 
only  chills  the  breasts  of  those  it  clothes,  but  extending  its  in¬ 
fluence  to  summer  friends,  freezes  up  their  sources  of  good¬ 
will  and  kindness;  and  withering  all  the  buds  of  promise  they 
once  so  liberally  put  forth,  leaves  nothing  but  bared  and  rotten 
hearts  exposed.  There  are  few  who  have  lost  a  friend  or  rela¬ 
tive  constituting  in  life  their  sole  dependence,  who  have  not 
keenly  felt  this  chilling  influence  of  their  sable  garb.  She  had 
felt  it  acutely,  and  feeling  it  at  the  moment,  could  not  quite 
restrain  her  tears. 

u  T  WAS  afraid,”  said  Smike,  overjoyed  to  see  his  friend 
JL  again,  “  that  you  had  fallen  into  some  fresh  trouble  ;  the 
time  seemed  so  long,  at  last,  that  I  almost  feared  you  were 
lost.” 

“Lost !”  replied  Nicholas  gayly.  “You  will  not  get  rid  of 
me  so  easily,  I  promise  you.  I  shall  rise  to  the  surface  many 
thousand  times  yet,  and  the  harder  the  thrust  that  pushes  me 
down,  the  more  quickly  I  shall  rebound,  Smike.  But  come, 
my  errand  here  is  to  take  you  home.” 

“  Home  !  ”  faltered  Smike,  drawing  timidly  back. 

“Ay,”  rejoined  Nicholas,  taking  his  arm.  “Why  not?” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


317 


“I  had  such  hopes  once,”  said  Smike,  “day  and  night,  day 
and  night,  for  many  years.  I  longed  for  home  till  I  was 
weary,  and  pined  away  with  grief ;  but  now — ” 

“And  what  now?”  asked  Nicholas,  looking  kindly  in  his 
face.  “  What  now,  old  friend  ?  ” 

“  I  could  not  part  from  you  to  go  to  any  home  on  earth,” 
replied  Smike,  pressing  his  hand ;  “  except  one,  except  one. 
I  shall  never  be  an  old  man ;  and  if  your  hand  placed  me  in 
the  grave,  and  I  could  think,  before  I  died,  that  you  would 
come  and  look  upon  it  sometimes  with  one  of  your  kind  smiles, 
and  in  the  summer  weather,  when  everything  was  alive — not 
dead  like  me — I  could  go  to  that  home,  almost  without  a 
tear.” 

^  /T  EASLES,  rheumatics,  hooping-cough,  fevers,  agers, 
_VJl  and  lumbagers,”  said  Mr.  Squeers,  “is  all  philoso¬ 
phy  together  ;  that’s  what  it  is.  The  heavenly  bodies  is  phi¬ 
losophy,  and  the  earthly  bodies  is  philosophy.  If  there’s  a 
screw  loose  in  a  heavenly  body,  that’s  philosophy;  and  if 
there’s  a  screw  loose  in  a  earthly  body,  that’s  philosophy  too  ; 
or  it  may  be  that  sometimes  there’s  a  little  metaphysics  in  it, 
but  that’s  not  often.  Philosophy’s  the  chap  for  me.  If  a  pa¬ 
rent  asks  a  question  in  the  classical,  commercial,  or  mathe¬ 
matical  line,  says  I,  gravely,  ‘Why,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  are 
you  a  philosopher?’ — ‘No,  Mr.  Squeers,’  he  says,  ‘I  an’t.’ 
‘Then,  sir,’  says  I,  ‘I  am  sorry  for  you,  for  I  shan’t  be  able  to 
explain  it.’  Naturally,  the  parent  goes  away  and  wishes  he 
was  a  philosopher,  and,  equally  naturally,  thinks  I’m  one.” 

J  ELL,  I  never  saw  such  people  in  ail  my  life  as  you 
V  V  are,  for  time,  up  here  !  ”  Mrs.  Nickleby  would  ex¬ 
claim  in  great  astonishment ;  “  I  declare  I  never  did  ;  I  had 
not  the  least  idea  that  Nicholas  was  after  his  time,  not  the 
smallest.  Mr.  Nickleby  used  to  say — your  poor  papa,  I  am 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


318 

speaking  of,  Kate,  my  dear — used  to  say,  that  appetite  was 
the  best  clock  in  the  world,  but  you  have  no  appetite,  my  dear 
Miss  Bray,  I  wish  you  had,  and  upon  my  word,  I  really  think 
you  ought  to  take  something  that  would  give  you  one.  I  am 
sure  I  don’t  know,  but  I  have  heard  that  two  or  three  dozen 
native  lobsters  give  an  appetite,  though  that  comes  to  the 
same  thing  after  all,  for  I  suppose  you  must  have  an  appetite 
before  you  can  take  ’em.  If  I  said  lobsters,  I  meant  oysters, 
it’s  all  the  same.  Though  really  how  you  came  to  know  about 
Nicholas-—-” 


FROM  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  GAVE  him  good-morning,  and  asked  him  what  o’clock  it 
was.  He  took  out  of  his  pocket  the  most  respectable 
hunting-watch  I  ever  saw,  and  preventing  the  spring  with  his 
thumb  from  opening  far,  looked  in  at  the  face,  as  if  he  were 
consulting  an  oracular  oyster,  shut  it  up  again,  and  said,  if  I 
pleased,  it  was  half-past  eight. 

60  HP  HANK  you,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  waving  his  hand  as  of 
old,  and  settling  his  chin  in  his  shirt-collar.  “  She  is 
tolerably  convalescent.  The  twins  no  longer  derive  their  sus¬ 
tenance  from  Nature’s  founts — in  short,”  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
in  one  of  his  bursts  of  confidence,  “they  are  weaned — and  Mrs. 
Micawber  is  at  present  my  travelling  companion.  She  will 
be  rejoiced,  Copperfield,  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  one 
who  has  proved  himself  in  all  respects  a  worthy  minister  at  the 
sacred  altar  of  friendship.” 

u  T  SUPPOSE,  sir,”  said  I,  still  desiring  to  spare  my  aunt, 
X  “  that  it  is  not  the  custom  here,  if  an  articled  clerk  were 
particularly  useful,  and  made  himself  a  perfect  master  of  his 


PROMISCUOUS. 


31 9 

profession — ”  I  could  not  help  blushing,  this  looked  so  like 
praising  myself — “  I  suppose  it  is  not  the' custom,  in  the  later 
years  of  his  time,  to  allow  him  any — ” 

Mr.  Spenlow,  by  a  great  effort,  just  lifted  his  head  far  enough 
out  of  his  cravat  to  shake  it,  and  answered,  anticipating  the 
word  “  salary.” 

“  No.  I  will  not  say  what  consideration  I  might  give  to  that 
point  myself,  Mr.  Copperfield,  if  I  were  unfettered.  Mr.  Jor- 
kins  is  immovable.” 

I  was  quite  dismayed  by  the  idea  of  this  terrible  Jorkins. 
But  I  found  out  afterwards  that  he  was  a  mild  man  of  a  heavy 
temperament,  whose  place  in  the  business  was  to  keep  himself 
in  the  background,  and  be  constantly  exhibited  by  name  as  the 
most  obdurate  and  ruthless  of  men.  If  a  clerk  wanted  his  sal¬ 
ary  raised,  Mr.  Jorkins  wouldn’t  listen  to  such  a  proposition. 
If  a  client  were  slow  to  settle  his  bill  of  costs,  Mr.  Jorkins  was 
resolved  to  have  it  paid ;  and  however  painful  these  things 
might  be  (and  always  were)  to  the' feelings  of  Mr.  Spenlow,  Mr. 
Jorkins  wrould  have  his  bond.  The  heart  and  hand  of  the  good 
angel  Spenlow  wTould  have  been  always  open,  but  for  the  re¬ 
straining  demon,  Jorkins.  As  I  have  grown  older,  I  think  I 
have  had  experience  of  some  other  houses  doing  business  on 
the  principle  of  Spenlow  and  Jorkins. 


I  FOUND,  when  I  did  open  it,  that  it  was  a  very  kind  note, 
containing  no  reference  to  my  condition  at  the  theatre. 
All  it  said  was,  “  My  dear  Trotwood.  I  am  staying  at  the 
house  of  papa’s  agent,  Mr.  Waterbrook,  in  Ely  Place',  Holborn. 
Will  you  come  and  see  me  to-day,  at  any  time  you  like  to  ap¬ 
point  ?  Ever  yours  affectionately,  Agnes.” 

It  took  me  such  a  long  time  to  write  an  answer  at  all  to  my 
satisfaction,  that  I  don’t  know  what  the  ticket-porter  can  have 
thought,  unless  he  thought  I  was  learning  to  write.  I  must 
have  written  half  a  dozen  answers  at  least.  I  began  one, 
“  Flow  can  I  ever  hope,  my  dear  Agnes,  to  efface  from  your 


320 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


remembrance  the  disgusting  impression” — there  I  didn’t  like 
it,  and  then  I  tore  it  up.  I  began  another,  “  Shakespeare  has 
observed,  my  dear  Agnes,  how  strange  it  is  that  a  man  should 
put  an  enemy  into  his  mouth” — that  reminded  me  of  Markham, 
and  it  got  no  farther.  I  even  tried  poetry.  I  began  one  note, 
in  a  six-syllable  line,  “Oh,  do  not  remember” — but  that  asso¬ 
ciated  itself  with  the  fifth  of  November,  and  became  an  absurd¬ 
ity.  After  many  attempts,  I  wrote,  “My  dear  Agnes.  Your 
letter  is  like  you,  and  what  could  I  say  of  it  that  would  be 
higher  praise  than  that  ?  I  will  come  at  four  o’clock.  Affec¬ 
tionately  and  sorrowfully,  T.  C.”  With  this  missive  (which  I 
was  in  twenty  minds  at  once  about  recalling,  as  soon  as  it  was 
out  of  my  hands),  the  ticket-porter  at  last  departed. 

OU  must  not  forget,”  said  Agnes,  calmly  changing  the 
JL  conversation  as  soon  as  I  had  concluded,  “  that  you 
are  always  to  tell  me,  not  only  when  you  fall  into  trouble,  but 
when  you  fall  in  love.  Who  has  succeeded  to  Miss  Larkins, 
Trotwood  ?  ” 

“  No  one,  Agnes.” 

“  Some  one,  Trotwood,”  said  Agnes,  laughing,  and  holding 
up  her  finger. 

“  No,  Agnes,  upon  my  word  !  There  is  a  lady,  certainly,  at 
Mrs.  Steerforth’s  house,  who  is  very  clever,  and  whom  I  like  to 
talk  to — Miss  Dartle — but  I  don’t  adore  her.” 

Agnes  laughed  again  at  her  own  penetration,  and  told  me 
that  if  I  were  faithful  to  her  in  my  confidence,  she  thought  she 
should  keep  a  little  register  of  my  violent  attachments,  with  the 
date,  duration,  and  termination  of  each,  like  the  table  of  the 
reigns  of  the  kings  and  queens  in  the  History  of  England. 

OH,  you  know,  deuce  take  it,”  said  this  gentleman,  look¬ 
ing  round  the  board  with  an  imbecile  smile,  “we 
can’t  forego  Blood,  you  know.  We  must  have  Blood,  you  know. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


321 


Some  young  fellows,  you  know,  may  be  a  little  behind  their  sta¬ 
tion,  perhaps,  in  point  of  education  and  behavior,  and  may  go 
a  little  wrong,  you  know,  and  get  themselves  and  other  people 
into  a  variety  of  fixes— and  all  that — but  deuce  take  it,  it’s  de¬ 
lightful  to  reflect  that  they’ve  got  Blood  in  ’em  !  Myself,  I’d 
rather  at  any  time  be  knocked  down  by  a  man  who  had  got 
Blood  in  him,  than  I’d  be  picked  up  by  a  man  who  hadn’t !” 

OWEVER,”  he  said,  “it’s  not  that  we  haven’t  made  a 
beginning  towards  housekeeping.  No,  no  ;  we  have 
begun.  We  must  get  on  by  degrees,  but  we  have  begun. 
Here,”  drawing  the  cloth  off  with  great  pride  and  care, 
“  are  two  pieces  of  furniture  to  commence  with.  This  flower¬ 
pot  and  stand  she  bought  herself.  You  put  that  in  a  parlor- 
window,”  said  Traddles,  falling  a  little  back  from  it  to  survey  it 
with  the  greater  admiration,  “with  a  plant  in  it,  and — and  there 
you  are  !  This  little  round  table  with  the  marble  top  (it’s  two 
feet  ten  in  circumference),  /bought.  You  want  to  lay  a  book 
down,  you  know,  or  somebody  comes  to  see  you  or  your  wife, 
and  wants  a  place  to  stand  a  cup  of  tea  upon,  and — and  there 
you  are  again!”  said  Traddles.  “It’s  an  admirable’piece  of 
workmanship — firm  as  a  rock  !” 

I  praised  them  both  highly,  and  Traddles  replaced  the  cov¬ 
ering  as  carefully  as  he  had  removed  it. 

“  It’s  not  a  great  deal  towards  the  furnishing,”  said  Traddles, 
“but  it’s  something.  The  table-cloths,  and  pillow-cases,  and 
articles  of  that  kind,  are  what  discourage  me  most,  Copperfield. 
So  does  the  ironmongery — candle-boxes,  and  gridirons,  and 
that  sort  of  necessaries — because  those  things  tell,  and  mount 
up.  However,  ‘wait  and  hope.’  And  I  assure  you  she’s  the 
dearest  girl !  ” 

r  I  "'O  divert  his  thoughts  from  this  melancholy  subject,  I  in- 
1  formed  Mr.  Micawber  that  I  relied  upon  him  for  a  bowl 
of  punch,  and  led  him  to  the  lemons.  His  recent  despond- 
14* 


322  BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS.' 

ency,  not  to  say  despair,  was  gone  in  a  moment.  I  never  saw 
a  man  so  thoroughly  enjoy  himself  amid  the  fragrance  of  lemon- 
peel  and  sugar,  the  odor  of  burning  rum,  and  the  steam  of  boil¬ 
ing  water,  as  Mr.  Micawber  did  that  afternoon.  It  was  won¬ 
derful  to  see  his  face  shining  at  us  out  of  a  thin  cloud  of  these 
delicate  fumes,  as  lie  stirred,  and  mixed,  and  tasted,  and  looked 
as  if  he  were  making,  instead  of  punch,  a  fortune  for  his  family 
down  to  the  latest  posterity.  As  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  I  don’t 
know  whether  it  was  the  effect  of  the  cap,  or  the  lavender- 
water,  or  the  pins,  or  the  fire,  or  the  wax-candles,  but  she  came 
out  of  my  room,  comparatively  speaking,  lovely.  And  the  lark 
was  never  gayer  than  that  excellent  woman. 

r  |  ''HERE  was  another  thing  I  could  have  wished:  namely, 
JL  that  Jip  had  never  been  encouraged  to  walk  about  the 
table-cloth  during  dinner.  I  began  to  think  there  was  some¬ 
thing  disorderly  in  his  being  there  at  all,  even  if  he  had  not 
been  in  the  habit  of  putting  his  foot  in  the  salt  or  the  melted 
butter.  On  this  occasion  he  seemed  to  think  he  was  intro¬ 
duced  expressly  to  keep  Traddles  at  bay ;  and  he  barked  at 
my  old  friend,  and  made  short  runs  at  his  plate,  with  such  un¬ 
daunted  pertinacity,  that  he  may  be  said  to  have  engrossed  the 
conversation. 

MY  aunt  tied  the  strings  of  her  bonnet  (she  had  come 
down  to  breakfast  in  it),  and  put  on  her  shawl,  as  if  she 
were  ready  for  anything  that  was  resolute  and  uncompromising. 
Traddles  buttoned  his  coat  with  a  determined  air.  Mr.  Dick, 
disturbed  by  these  formidable  appearances,  but  feeling  it  neces¬ 
sary  to  imitate  them,  pulled  his  hat,  with  both  hands,  as  firmly 
over  his  ears  as  he  possibly  could ;  and  instantly  took  it  off 
again,  to  welcome  Mr.  Micawber. 

AGAIN,  Mr.  Micawber  had  a  relish  in  this  formal  piling  up 
of  words,  which,  however  ludicrously  displayed  in  his  case, 
was,  I  must  say,  not  at  all  peculiar  to  him.  I  have  observed 


PROMISCUOUS. 


323 


it,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  in  numbers  of  men.  It  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  general  rule.  In  the  taking  of  legal  oaths,  for  in¬ 
stance,  deponents  seems  to  enjoy  themselves  mightily  when 
they  come  to  several  good  words  in  succession,  for  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  one  idea ;  as,  that  they  utterly  detest,  abominate,  and 
abjure,  or  so  forth  ;  and  the  old  anathemas  were  made  relish¬ 
ing  on  the  same  principle.  We  talk  about  the  tyranny  of 
words,  but  we  like  to  tyrannize  over  them  too ;  we  are  fond  of 
having  a  large  superfluous  establishment  of  words  to  wait  upon 
us  on  great  occasions  ;  we  think  it  looks  important,  and  sounds 
well.  As  we  are  not  particular  about  the  meaning  of  our  liv¬ 
eries  on  state  occasions,  if  they  be  but  fine  and  numerous 
enough,  so,  the  meaning  or  necessity  of  our  words  is  a  second¬ 
ary  consideration,  if  there  be  but  a  great  parade  of  them.  And 
as  individuals  get  into  trouble  by  making  too  great  a  show  of 
liveries,  or  as  slaves  when  they  are  too  numerous  rise  against 
their  masters,  so  I  think  I  could  mention  a  nation  that  has  got 
into  many  great  difficulties,  and  will  get  into  many  greater,  from 
maintaining  too  large  a  retinue  of  words. 


4t/r-A|Rto  Mrs.  Crewler — it  would  be  the  utmost  gratifica- 

V/  tion  of  my  wishes,  to  be  a  parent  to  the  girls.  He 
replied  in  a  most  admirable  manner,  exceedingly  flattering  to 
my  feelings,  and  undertook  to  obtain  the  consent  of  Mrs.  Crew¬ 
ler  to  this  arrangement.  They  had  a  dreadful  time  of  it  with 
her.  It  mounted  from  her  legs  into  her  chest,  and  then  into 
her  head — ■” 

“  What  mounted  ?”  I  asked. 

“Her  grief,”  replied  Traddles,  with  a  serious  look.  “Her 
feelings  generally.  As  I  mentioned  on  a  former  occasion,  she 
is  a  very  superior  woman,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs. 
Whatever  occurs  to  harass  her,  usually  settles  in  her  legs ;  but 
on  this  occasion  it  mounted  to  the  chest,  and  then  to  the  head, 
and,  in  short,  pervaded  the  whole  system  in  the  most  alarming 
manner.  However,  they  brought  her  through  it  by  unremit- 


324 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ting  and  affectionate  attention  ;  and  we  were  married  yesterday 
six  weeks.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  Monster  I  felt,  Copper- 
held,  when  I  saw  the  whole  family  crying  and  fainting  away  in 
every  direction  !  Mrs.  Crewler  couldn’t  see  me  before  we  left 
—couldn’t  forgive  me,  then,  for  depriving  her  of  her  child — but 
she  is  a  good  creature,  and  has  done  so  since.  I  had  a  delight¬ 
ful  letter  from  her,  only  this  morning. 

THE  opening  of  the  little  door  in  the  panelled  wall  made 
me  start  and  turn.  Her  beautiful,  serene  eyes  met  mine 
as  she  came  towards  me.  She  stopped  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  bosom,  and  1  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

“  Agnes !  my  dear  girl !  I  have  come  too  suddenly  upon 
you.” 

“  No,  no  !  I  am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you,  Trotwood  !  ” 

“  Dear  Agnes,  the  happiness  it  is  to  me  to  see  you  once 
again  !  ” 

I  folded  her  to  my  heart,  and  for  a  little  while  we  were  both 
silent.  Presently  we  sat  down,  side  by  side ;  and  her  angel- 
face  was  turned  upon  me  with  the  welcome  I  had  dreamed  of, 
waking  and  sleeping,  for  whole  years. 

She  was  so  true,  she  was  so  beautiful,  she  was  so  good — I 
owed  her  so  much  gratitude,  she  was  so  dear  to  me,  that  I 
could  find  no  utterance  for  what  I  felt.  I  tried  to  bless  her, 
tried  to  thank  her,  tried  to  tell  her  (as  I  had  often  done  in  let¬ 
ters)  what  an  influence  she  had  upon  me  ;  but  all  my  efforts 
were  in  vain.  My  love  and  joy  were  dumb. 

With  her  own  sweet  tranquillity  she  calmed  my  agitation  ;  led 
me  back  to  the  time  of  our  parting ;  spoke  to  me  of  Emily, 
whom  she  had  visited  in  secret  many  times  ;  spoke  to  me  ten¬ 
derly  of  Dora’s  grave.  With  the  unerring  instinct  of  her  noble 
heart,  she  touched  the  chords  of  my  memory  so  softly  and  har¬ 
moniously,  that  not  one  jarred  within  me ;  I  could  listen  to 
the  sorrowful,  distant  music,  and  desire  to  shrink  from  noth¬ 
ing  it  awoke.  How  could  I,  when  blended  with  it  all  was  her 
dear  self,  the  better  angel  of  my  life  ? 


PROMISCUOUS. 


325 


“  And  you,  Agnes,”  I  said,  by  and  by.  “Tell  me  of  your¬ 
self.  You  have  hardly  ever  told  me  of  your  own  life,  in  all  this 
lapse  of  time.” 

AND  now  I  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  struggle  I  had  had,  and 
the  conclusion  I  had  come  to.  I  tried  to  lay  my  mind 
before  her,  truly  and  entirety.  I  tried  to  show  her  how  I  had 
hoped  I  had  come  into  the  better  knowledge  of  myself  and  of 
her  ;  how  I  had  resigned  myself  to  what  that  better  knowledge 
brought ;  and  how  I  had  come  there,  even  that  day,  in  my 
fidelity  to  this.  If  she  did  so  love  me  (I  said)  that  she  could 
take  me  for  her  husband,  she  could  do  so,  on  no  deserving  of 
mine,  except  upon  the  truth  of  my  love  for  her,  and  the  trouble 
in  which  it  had  ripened  to  be  what  it  was  ;  and  hence  it  was 
that  I  revealed  it.  And  O,  Agnes,  even  out  of  thy  true  eyes, 
in  that  same  time,  the  spirit  of  my  child-wife  looked  upon  me, 
saying  it  was  well ;  and  winning  me,  through  thee,  to  tenderest 
recollections  of  the  blossom  that  had  withered  in  its  bloom. 


44  T  AM  so  blest,  Trotwood — my  heart  is  so  overcharged — 
X  but  there  is  one  thing  I  must  say.” 

“  Dearest,  what  ?  ” 

She  laid  her  gentle  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  looked 
calmly  in  my  face. 

“  Do  you  know  yet  what  it  is  ?  ” 

“  I  am  afraid  to  speculate  on  what  it  is.  Tell  me,  my  dear.” 
u  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life.” 

WITHIN  the  first  week  of  my  passion,  I  bought  four 
sumptuous  waistcoats — not  for  myself ;  /  had  no  pride 
in  them  ;  for  Dora — and  took  to  wearing  straw-colored  kid 
gloves  in  the  streets,  and  laid  the  foundations  of  all  the  corns  I 
have  ever  had.  If  the  boots  I  wore  at  that  period  could  only 


326 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


be  produced  and  compared  with  the  natural  size  of  my  feet, 
they  would  show  what  the  state  of  my  heart  was  in  a  most 
affecting  manner. 

And  yet,  wretched  cripple  as  I  made  myself  by  this  act  of 
homage  to  Dora,  I  walked  miles  upon  miles  daily  in  the  hope 
of  seeing  her.  Not  only  was  I  soon  as  well  known  on  the 
Norwood  Road  as  the  postmen  on  that  beat,  but  I  pervaded 
London  likewise.  I  walked  about  the  streets  where  the  best 
shops  for  ladies  were,  I  haunted  the  Bazaar  like  an  unquiet 
spirit,  I  fagged  through  the  Park  again  and  again,  long  after  I 
was  quite  knocked  up.  Sometimes,  at  long  intervals  and  on 
rare  occasions,  I  saw  her.  Perhaps  I  saw  her  glove  waved  in 
a  carriage-window  ;  perhaps  I  met  her,  walked  with  her  and 
Miss  Murdstone  a  little  way,  and  spoke  to  her.  In  the  latter 
case  I  was  always  very  miserable  afterwards,  to  think  that  I  had 
said  nothing  to  the  purpose  ;  or  that  she  had  no  idea  of  the 
extent  of  my  devotion ;  or  that  she  cared  nothing  about  me. 
I  was  always  looking  out,  as  may  be  supposed,  for  another  in¬ 
vitation  to  Mr.  Spenlow’s  house.  I  was  always  being  disap¬ 
pointed,  for  I  got  none. 

dEN  Dora  hung  her  head  and  cried  and  trembled,  my 


eloquence  increased  so  much  the  more.  If  she  would 


like  me  to  die  for  her,  she  had  but  to  say  the  word,  and  I  was 
ready.  Life  without  Dora’s  love  was  not  a  thing  to  have  on 
any  terms.  I  couldn’t  bear  it,  and  I  wouldn’t.  I  had  loved 
her  every  minute,  day  and  night,  since  I  first  saw  her.  I  loved 
her  at  that  minute  to  distraction.  I  should  always  love  her, 
every  minute,  to  distraction.  Lovers  had  loved  before,  and 
lovers  would  love  again ;  but  no  lover  had  ever  loved,  might, 
could,  would,  or  should  ever  love,  as  I  loved  Dora.  The  more 
I  raved,  the  more  Jip  barked.  Each  of  us,  in  his  own  way, 
got  more  mad  every  moment. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3  27 


FROM  THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP, 


USINESS  disposed  of,  Mr.  Swiveller  was  inwardly  re- 


A_J  minded  of  its  being  nigh  dinner-time,  and  to  the  intent 
that  his  health  might  not  be  endangered  by  longer  abstinence, 
despatched  a  message  to  the  nearest  eating-house  requiring 
an  immediate  supply  of  boiled  beef  and  greens  for  two.  With 
this  demand,  however,  the  eating-house  (having  experience  of 
its  customer)  declined  to  comply,  churlishly  sending  back  for 
answer  that  if  Mr.  Swiveller  stood  in  need  of  beef  perhaps  he 
would  be  so  obliging  as  to  come  there  and  eat  it,  bringing  with 
him,  as  grace  before  meat,  the  amount  of  a  certain  small  ac¬ 
count  which  had  been  long  outstanding.  Not  at  all  intimidated 
by  this  rebuff,  but  rather  sharpened  in  wits  and  appetite,  Mr. 
Swiveller  forwarded  the  same  message  to  another  and  more  dis¬ 
tant  eating-house,  adding  to  it  by  way  of  rider  that  the  gentle¬ 
man  was  induced  to  send  so  far,  not  only  by  the  great  fame  and 
popularity  its  beef  had  acquired,  but  in  consequence  of  the 
extreme  toughness  of  the  beef  retailed  at  the  obdurate  cook’s 
shop,  which  rendered  it  quite  unfit  not  merely  for  gentlemanly 
food  but  for  any  human  consumption.  The  good  effect  of  this 
politic  course  was  demonstrated  by  the  speedy  arrival  of  a  small 
pewter  pyramid,  curiously  constructed  of  platters  and  covers, 
whereof  the  boiled-beef-plates  formed  the  base,  and  a  foaming 
quart-pot  the  apex  ;  the  structure  being  resolved  into  its  com¬ 
ponent  parts  afforded  all  things  requisite  and  necessary  for  a 
hearty  meal,  to  which  Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  friend  applied 
themselves  with  great  keenness  and  enjoyment. 

“  May  the  present  moment,”  said  Dick,  sticking  his  fork  into 
a  large  carbuncular  potato,  “be  the  worst  of  our  lives!  I 
like  this  plan  of  sending ’em  with  the  peel  on ;  there’s  a  charm 
in  drawing  a  potato  from  its  native  element  (if  I  may  so  ex¬ 
press  it)  to  which  the  rich  and  powerful  are  strangers.  Ah  ! 
‘  Man  wants  but  little  here  below,  nor  wants  that  little  long  !  ” 
How  true  that  is  ! — after  dinner.” 


328 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  I  hope  the  eating-house  keeper  will  want  but  little  and 
that  he  may  not  want  that  little  long,”  returned  his  companion  ; 
“  but  I  suspect  you’ve  no  means  of  paying  for  this  !  ” 

“  I  shall  be  passing  presently,  and  I’ll  call,”  said  Dick,  wink¬ 
ing  his  eye  significantly.  “  The  waiter’s  quite  helpless.  The 
goods  are  gone,  Fred,  and  there’s  an  end  of  it.” 

In  point  of  fact,  it  would  seem  that  the  waiter  felt  this  whole¬ 
some  truth,  for  when  he  returned  for  the  empty  plates  and 
dishes  and  was  informed  by  Mr.  Swiveller  with  dignified  care¬ 
lessness  that  he  would  call  and  settle  when  he  should  be  pass¬ 
ing  presently,  he  displayed  some  perturbation  of  spirit,  and 
muttered  a  few  remarks  about  “  payment  on  delivery,”  and  “no 
trust,”  and  other  unpleasant  subjects,  but  was  fain  to  content 
himself  with  inquiring  at  what  hour  it  was  likely  the  gentleman 
would  call,  in  order  that  being  personally  responsible  for  the 
beef,  greens,  and  sundries,  he  might  take  care  to  be  in  the  way 
at  the  time.  Mr.  Swiveller,  after  mentally  calculating  his 
engagements  to  a  nicety,  replied  that  he  should  look  in  at  from 
two  minutes  before  six  to  seven  minutes  past ;  and  the  man 
disappearing  with  this  feeble  consolation,  Richard  Swiveller 
took  a  greasy  memorandum-book  from  his  pocket  and  made  an 
entry  therein. 

u  Is  that  a  reminder  in  case  you  should  forget  to  call?”  said 
Trent  with  a  sneer. 

“  Not  exactly,  Fred,”  replied  the  imperturbable  Richard, 
continuing  to  wTrite  with  a  business-like  air,  “  I  enter  in  this 
little  book  the  names  of  the  streets  that  I  can’t  go  down  while 
the  shops  are  open.  This  dinner  to-day  closes  Long  Acre.  I 
bought  a  pair  of  boots  in  Great  Queen  Street  last  week,  and 
made  that  no  thoroughfare  too.  There’s  only  one  avenue  in 
the  Strand  left  open  now,  and  I  shall  have  to  stop  up  that  to¬ 
night  with  a  pair  of  gloves.  The  roads  are  closing  so  fast  in 
every  direction,  that  in  about  a  month’s  time,  unless  my  aunt 
sends  me  a  remittance,  I  shall  have  to  go'  three  or  four  miles 

out  of  the  way  to  get  over  the  way.” 

\  _ 

“  There’s  no  fear  of  her  failing,  in  the  end  ?  ”  said  Trent. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


329 


“Why,  I  hope  not,”  returned  Mr.  Swiveller,  “but  the  aver¬ 
age  number  of  letters  it  takes  to  soften  her  is  six,  and  this 
time  we  have  got  as  far  as  eight  without  any  effect  at  all.  I’ll 
write  another  to-morrow  morning.  I  mean  to  blot  it  a  good 
deal  and  shake  some  wrater  over  it  out  of  the  pepper-castor,  to 
make  it  look  penitent.  1  I’m  in  such  a  state  of  mind  that  I 
hardly  know  what  I  write’ — blot — ‘if  you  could  see  me  at  this 
minute  shedding  tears  for  my  past  misconduct  ’ — pepper-castor 
— ‘my  hand  trembles  when  I  think’ — blot  again — if  that  don’t 
produce  the  effect,  it’s  all  over.” 


ERE’S  a  bird  !  What’s  to  be  done  with  this  ?  ” 


“  Wring  its  neck,”  rejoined  Quilp. 


“Oh  no,  don’t  do  that,”  said  Kit,  stepping  forward.  “Give 
it  to  me.” 

“Oh  yes,  I  dare  say,”  cried  the  other  boy.  “Come  !  You 
let  the  cage  alone,  and  let  me  wring  its  neck,  will  you  ?  He 
said  I  was  to  do  it.  You  let  the  cage  alone,  will  you?  ” 

“  Give  it  here,  give  it  to  me,  you  dogs,”  roared  Quilp. 
“  Fight  for  it,  you  dogs,  or  I’ll  wring  its  neck  myself!  ” 

Without  further  persuasion,  the  two  boys  fell  upon  each 
other,  tooth  and  nail,  while  Quilp,  holding  up  the  cage  in  one 
hand,  and  chopping  the  ground  with  his  knife  in  an  ecstasy, 
urged  them  on  by  his  taunts  and  cries  to  fight  more  fiercely. 
They  were  a  pretty  equal  match,  and  rolled  about  together, 
exchanging  blows  which  were  by  no  means  child’s  play,  until 
at  length  Kit,  planting  a  well-directed  hit  in  his  adversary’s 
chest,  disengaged  himself,  sprung  nimbly  up,  and  snatching  the 
cage  from  Quilp’ s  hands  made  off  with  his  prize. 

He  did  not  stop  once,  until  he  reached  home,  where  his 
bleeding  face  occasioned  great  consternation,  and  caused  the 
elder  child  to  howl  dreadfully. 

“  Goodness  gracious,  Kit,  what  is  the  matter,  what  have  you 
been  doing?”  cried  Mrs.  Nubbles. 

“  Never  you  mind,  mother,”  answered  her  son,  wiping  his 


330 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


face  on  the  jack-towel  behind  the  door.  “1’m  not  hurt,  don’t 
you  be  afraid  for  me.  I’ve  been  a-fightin’  for  a  bird  and  won 
him,  that’s  all.  Hold  your  noise,  little  Jacob.  I  never  see 
such  a  naughty  boy  in  ail  my  days  !  ”  , 

“  You  have  been  a-fighting  for  a  bird  !  ”  exclaimed  his  mother. 

“  Ah  !  Fightin’  for  a  bird  !  ”  replied  Kit,  “  and  here  he  is — • 
Miss  Nelly’s  bird,  mother,  that  they  was  a-goin’  to  wring  the 
neck  of !  I  stopped  that  though' — ha,  ha,  ha  !  They  wouldn’t 
wring  his  neck  and  me  by,  no,  no.  It  wouldn’t  do,  mother, 
it  wouldn’t  do  at  all.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  ” 

Kit  laughing  so  heartily,  with  his  swollen  and  bruised  face 
looking  out  of  the  towel,  made  little  Jacob  laugh,  and  then  his 
mother  laughed,  and  then  the  baby  crowed  and  kicked  with 
great  glee,  and  then  they  all  laughed  in  concert :  partly  be¬ 
cause  of  Kit’s  triumph,  and  partly  because  they  were  very  fond 
of  each  other.  When  this  fit  was  over,  Kit  exhibited  the  bird 
to  both  children,  as  a  great  and  precious  rarity — it  was  only  a 
poor  linnet — and  looking  about  the  wall  for  an  old  nail,  made 
a  scaffolding  of  a  chair  and  table  and  twisted  it  out  with  great 
exultation. 

“  Let  me  see,”  said  the  boy,  “  I  think  I’ll  hang  him  in  the 
winder,  because  it’s  more  light  and  cheerful,  and  he  can  see 
the  sky  there,  if  he  looks  up  very  much.  He’s  such  a  one  to 
sing,  I  can  tell  you  !  ” 

So  the  scaffolding  was  made  again,  and  Kit,  climbing  up 
with  the  poker  for  a  hammer,  knocked  in  the  nail  and  hung  up 
the  cage,  to  the  immeasurable  delight  of  the  whole  family. 
When  it  had  been  adjusted  and  straightened  a  great  many 
times,  and  he  had  walked  backwards  into  the  fire-place  in  his 
admiration  of  it,  the  arrangement  was  pronounced  to  be  per¬ 
fect. 

“  And  now,  mother,”  said  the  boy,  “  before  I  rest  any  more, 
I’ll  go  out  to  see  if  I  can  find  a  horse  to  hold,  and  then  I  can 
buy  some  bird-seed,  and  a  bit  of  something  nice  for  you,  in  the 
bargain.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


331 


'’'T"' HE  town  was  glad  with  morning  light;  places  that  had 
X  shown  ugly  and  distrustful  all  night  long,  now  wore  a 
smile  ;  and  sparkling  sunbeams  dancing  on  chamber-windows, 
and  twinkling  through  blind  and  curtain  before  sleepers’  eyes, 
shed  light  even  into  dreams,  and  chased  away  the  shadows  of 
the  night.  Birds  in  hot  rooms,  covered  up  close  and  dark,  felt 
it  was  morning,  and  chafed  and  grew  restless  in  their  little 
cells  ;  bright-eyed  mice  crept  back  to  their  tiny  homes  and 
nestled  timidly  together;  the  sleek  house-cat,  forgetful  of  her 
prey,  sat  winking  at  the  rays  of  sun  starting  through  key-hole 
and  cranny  of  the  door,  and  longed  for  her  stealthy  run  and 
warm  sleek  bask  outside.  The  nobler  beasts  confined  in  dens 
stood  motionless  behind  their  bars,  and  gazed  on  fluttering 
boughs,  and  sunshine  peeping  through  some  little  window,  with 
eyes  in  which  old  forests  gleamed — then  trod  impatiently  the 
track  their  prisoned  feet  had  worn — and  stopped  and  gazed 
again.  Men  in  their  dungeons  stretched  their  cramp,  cold 
limbs  and  cursed  the  stone  that  no  bright  sky  could  warm. 
The  flowers  that  slept  by  night  opened  their  gentle  eyes  and 
turned  them  to  the  day.  The  light,  creation’s  mind,  was  every¬ 
where,  and  all  things  owned  its  power. 

HEN  the  festoons  were  all  put  up  as  tastily  as  they 


V  V  might  be,  the  stupendous  collection  was  uncovered, 
and  there  were  displayed,  on  a  raised  platform  some  two  feet 
from  the  floor,  running  around  the  room  and  parted  from  the 
rude  public  by  a  crimson  rope  breast-high,  divers  sprightly  effi¬ 
gies  of  celebrated  characters,  singly  and  in  groups,  clad  in  glit¬ 
tering  dresses  of  various  climes  and  times,  and  standing  more 
or  less  unsteadily  upon  their  legs,  with  their  eyes  very  wide 
open,  and  their  nostrils  very  much  inflated,  and  the  muscles  of 
their  legs  and  arms  very  strongly  developed,  and  all  their  coun¬ 
tenances  expressing  great  surprise.  All  the  gentlemen  were 
very  pigeon-breasted  and  very  blue  about  the  beards ;  and  all 
the  ladies  were  miraculous  figures ;  and  all  the  ladies  and  all 


332 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


the  gentlemen  were  looking  intensely  nowhere,  and  staring  with 
extraordinary  earnestness  at  nothing. 

When  Nell  had  exhausted  her  first  raptures  at  this  glorious 
sight,  Mrs.  Jarley  ordered  the  room  to  be  cleared  of  all  but 
herself  and  the  child,  and,  sitting  herself  down  in  an  arm-chair 
in  the  centre,  formally  invested  Nell  with  a  willow  wand,  long 
used  by  herself  for  pointing  out  the  characters,  and  was  at  great 
pains  to  instruct  her  in  her  duty. 

“That,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley  in  her  exhibition  tone,  as  Nell 
touched  a  figure  at  the  beginning  of  the  platform,  “is  an  un¬ 
fortunate  Maid  of  Honor  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who 
died  from  pricking  her  finger  in  consequence  of  working  upon 
a  Sunday.  Observe  the  blood  which  is  trickling  from  her  fin¬ 
ger  ;  also  the  gold-eyed  needle  of  the  period,  with  which  she  is 
at  work.” 

All  this  Nell  repeated  twice  or  thrice,  pointing  to  the  finger 
and  the  needle  at  the  right  times,  and  then  passed  on  to  the 
next. 

“That,  ladies  and  gentlemen,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  “  is  Jasper 
Packlemerton,  of  atrocious  memory,  who  courted  and  married 
fourteen  wives,  and  destroyed  them  all  by  tickling  the  soles  of 
their  feet  when  they  were  sleeping  in  the  consciousness  of  in¬ 
nocence  and  virtue.  On  being  brought  to  the  scaffold  and 
asked  if  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done,  he  replied  yes,  he 
was  sorry  for  having  let  ’em  off  so  easy,  and  hoped  all  Christian 
husbands  would  pardon  him  the  offence.  Let  this  be  a  warn¬ 
ing  to  all  young  ladies  to  be  particular  in  the  character  of  the 
gentlemen  of  their  choice.  Observe  that  his  fingers  are  curled 
as  if  in  the  act  of  tickling,  and  that  his  face  is  represented  with 
a  wink,  as  he  appeared  when  committing  his  barbarous  mur¬ 
ders.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


333 


FROM  BARNABY  RUDGE. 

u  /I"  Y  meaning  is,  that  you  must  do  as  I  did  ;  that  you 
IVi  must  marry  well  and  make  the  most  of  yourself.” 

“  A  mere  fortune-hunter!”  cried  the  son  indignantly. 

“What  in  the  devil’s  name,  Ned,  would  you  be  !  ”  returned 
the  father.  “All  men  are  fortune-hunters,  are  they  not?  The 
law,  the  church,  the  court,  the  camp — see  how  they  are  all 
crowded  with  fortune-hunters,  jostling  each  other  in  the  pursuit. 
The  Stock  Exchange,  the  pulpit,  the  counting-house,  the  royal 
drawing-room,  the  Senate — what  but  fortune-hunters  are  they 
filled  with  ?  A  fortune-hunter  !  Yes.  You  are  one  ;  and 
you  would  be  nothing  else,  my  dear  Ned,  if  you  were  the 
greatest  courtier,  lawyer,  legislator,  prelate,  or  merchant,  in 
existence.  If  you  are  squeamish  and  moral,  Ned,  console 
yourself  with  the  reflection  that  at  the  worst  your  fortune-hunt¬ 
ing  can  make  but  one  person  miserable  or  unhappy.  How 
many  people  do  you  suppose  these  other  kinds  of  huntsmen 
crush  in  following  their  sport — hundreds  at  a  step  ?  Or  thou¬ 
sands  ?  ” 

t 

MEN  who  are  thoroughly  false  and  hollow  seldom  try  to 
hide  those  vices  from  themselves  ;  and  yet  in  the  very 
act  of  avowing  them,  they  lay  claim  to  the  virtues  they  feign 
most  to  despise.  “  For,”  say  they,  “  this  is  honesty,  this  is 
truth.  All  mankind  are  like  us,  but  they  have  not  the  candor 
to  avow  it.”  The  more  they  affect  to  deny  the  existence  of 
any  sincerity  in  the  world,  the  more  they  would  be  thought  to 
possess  it  in  its  boldest  shape ;  and  this  is  an  unconscious 
compliment  to  Truth  on  the  part  of  these  philosophers,  which 
will  turn  the  laugh  against  them  to  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

WHETHER  people,  by  dint  of  sitting  together  in  the 
same  place  and  the  same  relative  positions,  and  doing 
exactly  the  same  things  for  a  great  many  years,  acquire  a  sixth 


334 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


sense,  or  some  unknown  power  of  influencing  each  other  which 
serves  them  in  its  stead,  is  a  question  for  philosophy  to  settle. 
But  certain  it  is  that  old  John  Willet,  Mr.  Parkes,  and  Mr. 
Cobb  were  one  and  all  firmly  of  opinion  that  they  were  very 
jolly  companions — rather  choice  spirits  than  otherwise  ;  that 
they  looked  at  each  other  every  now  and  then  as  if  there  were 
a  perpetual  interchange  of  ideas  going  on  among  them ;  that 
no  man  considered  himself  or  his  neighbor  by  any  means 
silent ;  and  that  each  of  them  nodded  occasionally  when  he 
caught  the  eye  of  another,  as  if  he  would  say,  “  You  have 
expressed  yourself  extremely  well,  sir,  in  relation  to  that  senti¬ 
ment,  and  I  quite  agree  with  you.” 

LTHOUGH  there  was  something  very  ludicrous  in  his 


vehement  manner,  taken  in  conjunction  with  his  meagre 
aspect  and  ungraceful  presence,  it  would  scarcely  have  pro¬ 
voked  a  smile  in  any  man  of  kindly  feeling  ;  or  even  if  it  had, 
he  would  have  felt  sorry  and  almost  angry  with  himself  next 
moment,  for  yielding  to  the  impulse.  This  lord  was  sincere 
in  his  violence  and  in  his  wavering.  A  nature  prone  to  false 
enthusiasm,  and  the  vanity  of  being  a  leader,  were  the  worst 
qualities  apparent  in  his  composition.  All  the  rest  was  weak¬ 
ness — sheer  weakness  ;  and  it  is  the  unhappy  lot  of  thoroughly 
weak  men,  that  their  very  sympathies,  affections,  confidences — - 
all  the  qualities  which  in  better-constituted  minds  are  virtues — 
dwindle  into  foibles,  or  turn  into  downright  vices. 

u  "XT’  OU  do  wrong  not  to  fill  your  glass,”  said  Mr.  Chester, 
A  holding  up  his  own  before  the  light.  “  Wine  in  mod¬ 
eration — not  in  excess,  for  that  makes  men  ugly — has  a  thou¬ 
sand  pleasant  influences.  It  brightens  the  eye,  improves  the 
voice,  imparts  a  new  vivacity  to  one’s  thoughts  and  conversa¬ 
tion  :  you  should  try  it,  Ned.” 


uAh  father  !”  cried  his  son,  “if- — ” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


335 


“  My  good  fellow,”  interposed  the  parent  hastily,  as  he  set 
down  his  glass,  and  raised  his  eyebrows  with  a  startled  and 
horrified  expression,  “for  Heaven’s  sake  don’t  call  me  by  that 
obsolete  and  ancient  name.  Have  some  regard  for  delicacy. 
Am  I  gray,  or  wrinkled,  do  I  go  on  crutches,  have  I  lost  my 
teeth,  that  you  adopt  such  a  mode  of  address  ?  Good  God, 
how  very  coarse  !  ” 

“  I  was  about  to  speak  to  you  from  my  heart,  sir,”  returned 
Edward,  “in  the  confidence  which  should  subsist  between  us; 
and  you  check  me  in  the  outset.” 

“  Now  do,  Ned,  do  not,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  raising  his  deli¬ 
cate  hand  imploringly,  “talk  in  that  monstrous  manner. 
‘About  to  speak  from  your  heart !’  Don’t  you  know  that  the 
heart  is  an  ingenious  part  of  our  formation — the  centre  of  the 
blood-vessels,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — which  has  no  more  to 
do  with  what  you  say  or  think  than  your  knees  have  ?  How 
can  you  be  so  very  vulgar  and  absurd  ?  These  anatomical  al¬ 
lusions  should  be  left  to  gentlemen  of  the  medical  profession. 
They  are  really  not  agreeable  in  society.  You  quite  surprise 
me,  Ned.” 

“Well!  there  are  no  such  things  to  wound,  or  heal,  or 
have  regard  for.  "  I  know  your  creed,  sir,  and  will  say  no  more,” 
returned  his  son. 

“There  again,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  sipping  his  wine,  “you  are 
wrong.  I  distinctly  say  there  are  such  things.  We  know  there 
are.  The  hearts  of  animals — bullocks,  sheep,  and  so  forth — 
are  cooked  and  devoured,  as  I  am  told,  by  the  lower  classes, 
with  a  vast  deal  of  relish.  Men  are  sometimes  stabbed  to  the 
heart,  shot  to  the  heart ;  but  as  to  speaking  from  the  heart, 
or  to  the  heart,  or  being  warm-hearted,  or  cold-hearted,  or 
broken-hearted,  or  being  all  heart,  or  having  no  heart — pah  ! 
these  things  are  nonsense,  Ned.” 

TO  surround  anything,  however  monstrous  or  ridiculous, 
with  an  air  of  mystery,  is  to  invest  it  with  a  secret 
charm,  and  power  of  attraction  which  to  the  crowd  is  irresisti- 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ble.  False  priests,  false  prophets,  false  doctors,  false  patriots, 
false  prodigies  of  every  kind,  veiling  their  proceedings  in  mys¬ 
tery,  have  always  addressed  themselves  at  an  immense  advan¬ 
tage  to  the  popular  credulity,  and  have  been,  perhaps,  more 
indebted  to  that  resource  in  gaining  and  keeping  for  a  time  the 
upper  hand  of  Truth  and  Common  Sense,  than  to  any  half- 
dozen  items  in  the  whole  catalogue  of  imposture.  Curiosity  is, 
and  has  been,  from  the  creation  of  the  world,  a  master-passion. 
To  awaken  it,  to  gratify  it  by  slight  degrees,  and  yet  leave 
something  always  in  suspense,  is  to  establish  the  surest  hold 
that  can  be  had,  in  wrong,  on  the  unthinking  portion  of  man¬ 
kind. 


''HE  three  went  staggering  on,  arm-in-arm,  shouting  like 
madmen,  and  defying  the  watch  with  great  valor.  In¬ 
deed,  this  did  not  require  any  unusual  bravery  or  boldness,  as 
the  watchmen  of  that  time,  being  selected  for  the  office  on  ac¬ 
count  of  excessive  age  and  extraordinary  infirmity,  had  a  cus¬ 
tom  of  shutting  themselves  up  tight  in  their  boxes  on  the  first 
symptoms  of  disturbance,  and  remaining  there  until  they  dis¬ 
appeared. 


A  MOB  .is  usually  a  creature  of  very  mysterious  existence, 
particularly  in  a  large  city.  Where  it  comes  from,  or 
whither  it  goes,  few  men  can  tell.  Assembling  and  dispersing 
with  equal  suddenness,  it  is  as  difficult  to  follow  to  its  various 
sources  as  the  sea  itself;  nor  does  the  parallel  stop  here,  for  the 
ocean  is  not  more  fickle  and  uncertain,  more  terrible  when 
roused,  more  unreasonable,  or  more  cruel. 

IN  the  exhaustless  catalogue  of  Heaven’s  mercies  to  man¬ 
kind,  the  power  we  have  of  finding  some  germs  of  comfort 
in  the  hardest  trials  must  ever  occupy  the  foremost  place ;  not 
only  because  it  supports  and  upholds  us  when  we  most  require 


PROMISCUOUS. 


33  7 


to  be  sustained,  but  because  in  this  source  of  consolation  there 
is  something,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  of  the  Divine  Spirit ; 
something  of  that  goodness  which  detects  amidst  our  own  evil 
doings  a  redeeming  quality  ;  something  which,  even  in  our 
alien  nature,  we  possess  in  common  with  the  angels ;  which 
had  its  being  in  the  old  time  when  they  trod  the  earth,  and 
lingers  on  it  yet,  in  pity. 

How  often,  on  their  journey,  did  the  widow  remember  with 
a  grateful  heart,  that  out  of  his  deprivation  Barnaby’s  cheerful¬ 
ness  and  affection  sprung  !  How  often  did  she  call  to  mind 
that  but  for  that,  he  might  have  been  sullen,  morose,  unkind, 
far  removed  from  her — vicious,  perhaps,  and  cruel  !  .  How 

often  had  she  cause  for  comfort,  in  his  strength  and  hope,  and 
in  his  simple  nature  !  Those  feeble  powers  of  mind  which  ren¬ 
dered  him  so  soon  forgetful  of  the  past,  save  in  brief  gleams 
and  flashes — even  they  were  a  comfort  now.  The  world  to 
him  was  full  of  happiness;  in  every  tree,  and  plant,  and  flower, 
in  every  bird  and  beast,  and  tiny  insect  whom  a  breath  of  sum¬ 
mer  wind  laid  low  upon  the  ground,  he  had  delight.  His  de¬ 
light  was  hers ;  and  where  many  a  wise  son  would  have  made 
her  sorrowful,  this  poor  light-hearted  idiot  filled  her  breast  with 
thankfulness  and  love. 


IT  was  a  solemn  sound,  and  not  merely  for  its  reference  to 
to-morrow  ;  for  he  knew  that  in  that  chime  the  murderer’s 
knell  was  rung.  He  had  seen  him  pass  along  the  crowded 
street,  amidst  the  execrations  of  the  throng ;  had  marked  his 
quivering  lip,  and  trembling  limbs ;  the  ashy  hue  upon  his  face, 
his  clammy  brow,  the  wild  distraction  of  his  eye — the  fear  of 
death  that  swallowed  up  all  other  thoughts,  and  gnawed  without 
cessation  at  his  heart  and  brain.  He  had  marked  the  wander¬ 
ing  look,  seeking  for  hope,  and  finding,  turn  where  it  would, 
despair.  He  had  seen  the  remorseful,  pitiful,  desolate  creature, 
riding,  with  his  coffin  by  his  side,  to  the  gibbet.  He  knew 
that,  to  the  last,  he  had  been  an  unyielding,  obdurate  man ; 
15 


33§ 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


that  in  the  savage  terror  of  his  condition  he  had  hardened, 
rather  than  relented,  to  his  wife  and  child ;  and  that  the  last 
words  which  had  passed  his  white  lips  were  curses  on  them  as 
his  enemies. 


IET  no  man  turn  aside,  ever  so  slightly,  from  the  broad  path 
of  honor,  on  the  plausible  pretence  that  he  is  justified 
by  the  goodness  of  his  end.  All  good  ends  can  be  worked 
out  by  good  means.  Those  that  cannot,  are  bad ;  and  may  be 
counted  so  *at  once,  and  left  alone. 


rT~,,HE  ashes  of  the  commonest  fire  are  melancholy  things,  for 
-S-  in  them  there  is  an  image  of  death  and  ruin — of  something 
that  has  been  bright,  and  is  but  dull,  cold,  dreary  dust — with 
which  our  nature  forces  us  to  sympathize.  How  much  more 
sad  the  crumbled  embers  of  a  home  ;  the  casting  down  of  that 
great  altar,  where  the  worst  among  us  sometimes  perform  the 
worship  of  the  heart ;  and  where  the  best  have  offered  up  such 
sacrifices,  and  done  such  deeds  of  heroism,  as,  chronicled,  would 
put  the  proudest  temples  of  old  Time,  with  all  their  vaunting 
annals,  to  the  blush. 


FROM  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

U  O  O,  if  you  ever  see  her,  uncle,”  said  Walter,  “  I  mean  Miss 
wj)  Dombey  now — and  perhaps  you  may,  who  knows  ! — tell 
her  how  much  I  felt  for  her ;  how  much  I  used  to  think  of  her 
when  I  was  here ;  how  I  spoke  of  her,  with  the  tears  in  my 
eyes,  uncle,  on  this  last  night  before  I  went  away.  Tell  her 
that  I  said  I  never  could  forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her 
beautiful  face,  or  her  sweet,  kind  disposition,  that  was  better 
than  all.  And  as  I  didn’t  take  them  from  a  woman’s  feet,  or  a 


PROMISCUOUS. 


339 


young  lady’s,  only  a  little  innocent  child’s,”  said  Walter;  “tell 
her,  if  you  don’t  mind,  uncle,  that  I  kept  those  shoes — she’ll 
remember  how  often  they  fell  off,  that  night — and  took  them 
away  with  me  as  a  remembrance  !  ” 

u  A  ND,  Wal’r,”  said  the  Captain,  when  they  took  their  seats 

Ijl  at  table,  “if  your  uncle’s  the  man  I  think  him,  he’ll 
bring  out  the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present  occa¬ 
sion.” 

“No,  no,  Ned,”  returned  the  old  man.  “No  !  That  shall 
be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again.” 

“  Well  said  !  ”  cried  the  Captain.  “  Hear  him  !  ” 

“  There  it  lies,”  said  Sol  Gills,  “  down  in  the  little  cellar, 
covered  with  dirt  and  cobwebs.  There  may  be  dirt  and  cob¬ 
webs  over  you  and  me,  perhaps,  Ned,  before  it  sees  the  light.” 

“Hear  him!”  cried  the  Captain,  “good  morality!  Wal’r, 
my  lad.  Train  up  a  fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should  go,  and  when 
you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it.  Overhaul  the — Well,” 
said  the  Captain  on  second  thoughts,  “  I  ain’t  quite  certain 
where  that’s  to  be  found,  but  when  found,  make  a  note  of.  Sol 
Gills,  heave  ahead  again  !  ” 

“  But  there,  or  somewhere,  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until  Wally 
comes  back  to  claim  it,”  said  the  old  man.  “  That’s  all  I 
meant  to  say.” 

“And  well  said  too,”  returned  the  Captain;  “and  if  we 
three  don’t  crack  that  bottle  in  companv,  I’ll  give  you  two 
leave  to  drink  my  allowance  !  ” 


u  1  ^LORENCE,”  said  the  lady,  hurriedly,  and  looking  into 
X  her  face  with  great  earnestness,  “  you  will  not  begin  by 
hating  me  ?  ” 

“  By  hating  you,  mamma  ?  ”  cried  Florence,  winding  her  arm 
round  her  neck,  and  returning  the  look. 

“  Hush  !  Begin  by  thinking  well  of  me,”  said  the  beautiful 


340 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ady.  “  Begin  by  believing  that  I  will  try  to  make  you  happy, 
and  that  I  am  prepared  to  love  you,  Florence.  Good-by.  We 
shall  meet  again  soon.  Good-by !  Don’t  stay  here,  now.” 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast — she  had  spoken  in  a 
rapid  manner,  but  firmly — and  Florence  saw  her  rejoin  them  in 
the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  learn  from 
her  new  and  beautiful  mamma  how  to  gain  her  father’s  love ; 
and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  old  home,  her  own 
mamma  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hope,  and  blessed  it. 
Dreaming  Florence  ! 


u  TROLLY,  my  gal,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  young  Toodle 
X  on  each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and 
plenty  more  scattered  about — Mr.  Toodle  was  never  out  of 
children,  but  always  kept  a  good  supply  on  hand — “you  an’t 
seen  our  Biler  lately,  have  you  ?  ” 


UTN  point  of  fact,  it’s  nothing  of  a  story  in  itself,”  said 

X  Cousin  Feenix,  addressing  the  table  with  a  smile,  and  a 
gay  shake  of  his  head,  “  and  not  worth  a  word  of  preface.  But 
it’s  illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack’s  humor.  The  fact  is, 
that  Jack  was  invited  down  to  a  marriage — which  I  think  took 
place  in  Bark  shire  ?  ” 

“Shropshire,”  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  himself  ap¬ 
pealed  to. 

“Was  it?  Well!  In  point  of  fact,  it  might  have  been  in 
any  shire,”  said  Cousin  Feenix.  “  So  my  friend  being  invited 
down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,”  with  a  pleasant  sense  of 
the  readiness  of  this  joke,  “goes.  Just  as  some  of  us,  having 
had  the  honor  of  being  invited  to  the  marriage  of  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  with  my  friend  Dombey,  didn’t  re¬ 
quire  to  be  asked  twice,  and  were  devilish  glad  to  be  present 
on  so  interesting  an  occasion. — Goes — Jack  goes.  Now,  this 


PROMISCUOUS.  341 

marriage  was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an  uncommonly 
fine  girl  with  a  man  for  whom  she  didn’t  care  a  button,  but 
whom  she  accepted  on  account  of  his  property,  which  was  im¬ 
mense.  When  Jack  returned  to  town,  after  the  nuptials,  a  man 
he  knew,  meeting  him  in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
says,  ‘Well,  Jack,  how  are  the  ill-matched  couple?’  ‘Ill- 
matched?’  says  Jack.  ‘Not  at  all.  It’s  a  perfectly  fair  and 
equal  transaction.  She  is  regularly  bought,  and  you  may  take 
your  oath  he  is  as  regularly  sold  1  ’  ” 

AND  how  goes  the  wooden  Midshipman  in  these  changed 
days  ?  Why,  here  he  still  is,  right  leg  foremost,  hard  at 
work  upon  the  hackney-coaches,  and  more  on  the  alert  than 
ever,  being  newly-painted  from  his  cocked  hat  to  his  buckled 
shoes ;  and  up  above  him,  in  golden  characters,  these  names 
shine  refulgent,  Gills  and  Cuttle. 

Not  another  stroke  of  business  does  the  Midshipman  achieve 
beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.  But  they  do  say,  in  a  circuit  of 
some  half-mile  round  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall  Market, 
that  some  of  Mr.  Gills’s  old  investments  are  coming  out 
wonderfully  well ;  and  that  instead  of  being  behind  the  time  in 
those  respects,  as  he  supposed,  he  was,  in  truth,  a  little  before 
it,  and  had  to  wait  the  fulness  of  the  time  and  the  design.  The 
whisper  is  that  Mr.  Gills’s  money  has  begun  to  turn  itself,  and 
that  it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty  briskly.  Certain 
it  is  that,  standing  at  his  shop-door,  in  his  coffee-colored  suit, 
with  his  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  and  his  spectacles  on  his 
forehead,  he  don’t  appear  to  break  his  heart  at  customers  not 
coming,  but  looks  very  jovial  and  contented,  though  full  as 
misty  as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  partner,  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a  fiction  of  a  busi¬ 
ness  in  the  Captain’s  mind  which  is  better  than  any  reality. 
The  Captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  Midshipman’s  importance  to 
the  commerce  and  navigation  of  the  country,  as  he  could  possi¬ 
bly  be,  if  no  ship  left  the  Port  of  London  without  the  Midship- 


3  l2 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


man’s  assistance.  His  delight  in  his  own  name  over  the  door, 
is  inexhaustible.  He  crosses  the  street,  twenty  times  a  day,  to 
look  at  it  from  the  other  side  of  the  way ;  and  invariably  says, 
on  these  occasions,  “  Ed’ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  if  your  mother 
could  ha’  know’d  as  you  would  ever  be  a  man  o’  science,  the 
good  old  creetur  would  ha’  been  took  aback  indeed  !  ” 

IONG  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a  point  not  easy 
of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence  of  the 
Almighty’s  goodness — the  delicate  fingers  that  are  formed  for 
sensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch,  and  made  to  minister  to 
pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough  hard  Captain  Cuttle  hand,  that  the 
heart  teaches,  guides,  and  softens  in  a  moment. 

Florence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her  homelessness 
and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  watched  upon  the  stairs. 
A  louder  sob  or  moan  than  usual  brought  him  sometimes  to 
her  door,  but  by  degrees  she  slept  more  peacefully  and  the 
Captain’s  watch  was  undisturbed. 

BURIED  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did,  in  its 
time;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 
Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach  there  are  of¬ 
ten  a  young  lady,  and  a  white-haired  gentleman.  With  them, 
or  near  them,  are  two  children,  boy  and  girl.  And  an  old  dog 
is  generally  in  their  company. 

The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little  boy,  talks 
with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends  upon  him,  watches  him, 
as  if  he  were  the  object  of  his  life.  If  he  be  thoughtful,  the 
white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtful  too ;  and  sometimes  when 
the  child  is  sitting  by  his  side,  and  looks  up  in  his  face,  asking 
him  questions,  he  takes  the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it, 
forgets  to  answer.  Then  the  child  says  : 

“What,  grandpapa!  Am  I  so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  Paul.  But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are  very  strong.” 

“  Oh  yes,  I  am  very  strong.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


343 


c£  And  he  lay  on  a  little  bed  beside  the  sea,  and  you  can  run 
about.” 

And  so  they  range  away  again;  busily,  for  the  white-haired 
gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and  stirring ;  and  as 
they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the  bond  between  them 
goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  measure  of  the  white- 
haired  gentleman’s  affection  for  the  girl.  That  story  never  goes 
about.  The  child  herself  almost  wonders  at  a  certain  secrecy 
he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  her  in  his  heart.  He  cannot  bear 
to  see  a  cloud  upon  her  face.  He  cannot  bear  to  see 
her  sit  apart.  He  fancies  that  she  feels  a  slight,  when  there 
is  none.  He  steals  away  to  look  at  her,  in  her  sleep.  It 
pleases  him  to  have  her  come,  and  wake  him  in  the  morning. 
He  is  fondest  of  her  and  most  loving  to  her,  when  there  is  no 
creature  by.  The  child  says  then,  sometimes  : 

“  Dear  grandpa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kiss  me  ?  ” 

He  only  answers  “  Little  Florence  !  Little  Florence  !  ”  and 
smooths  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest  eyes. 

AND  again  he  said  “  Dom-bey  and  Son,”  in  exactly  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mr.  Dombey’s 
life.  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son  to  trade  in,  and 
the  sun  and  moon  were  made  to  give  them  light.  Rivers  and  seas 
were  formed  to  float  their  ships ;  rainbows  gave  them  promise 
of  fair  weather ;  winds  blew  for  or  against  their  enterprises ; 
stars  and  planets  circled  in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate 
a  system  of  which  they  were  the  centre.  Common  abbrevia¬ 
tions  took  new  meanings  in  his  eyes,  and  had  sole  reference  to 
them  :  A.  D.  had  no  concern  with  anno  Domini,  but  stood  for 
anno  Dombei — and  Son. 


N'  OW  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots  had  a  filmy  something  in 
his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he  could 
aspire  successfully,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the  hand  of  Flor- 


344 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ence,  he  would  be  fortunate  and  blest.  It  is  certain  that  Mr. 
Toots,  by  some  remote  and  roundabout  road,  had  got  to  that 
point,  and  that  there  he  made  a  stand.  His  heart  was 
wounded  ;  he  was  touched ;  he  was  in  love.  He  had  made  a 
desperate  attempt,  one  night,  and  had  sat  up  all  night  for  the 
purpose,  to  write  an  acrostic  on  Florence,  which  affected  him 
to  tears  in  the  conception.  But  he  never  proceeded  in  the 
execution  farther  than  the  words  “  For  when  I  gaze,” — the 
flow  of  imagination  in  which  he  had  previously  written  down 
the  initial  letters  of  the  other  seven  lines,  deserting  him  at  that 
point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure  of 
leaving  a  card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of  Mr.  Toots 
had  not  worked  much  in  reference  to  the  subject  that  held  his 
feelings  prisoner.  But  deep  consideration  at  length  assured 
Mr.  Toots  that  an  important  step  to  gain  was,  the  conciliation 
of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  preparatory  to  giving  her  some  inkling 
of  his  state  of  mind. 

A  little  light  and  playful  gallantry  towards  this  lady  seemed 
the  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the  history,  for 
winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being  able  quite  to  make  up 
his  mind  about  it,  he  consulted  the  Chicken — without  taking 
that  gentleman  into  his  confidence ;  merely  informing  him  that 
a  friend  in  Yorkshire  had  written  to  him  (Mr.  Toots)  for  his 
opinion  on  such  a  question.  The  Chicken  replying  that  his 
opinion  always  was,  “  Go  in  and  win,”  and  further,  “When 
your  man’s  before  you,  and  your  work  cut  out,  go  in  and  do 
it,  Mr.  Toots  considered  this  a  figurative  way  of  supporting 
his  own  view  of  the  case,  and  heroically  resolved  to  kiss  Miss 
Nipper  next  day. 

Upon  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into  requi¬ 
sition  some  of  the  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess  and  Co.  had 
ever  turned  out,  went  off  to  Mr.  Dombey’ s  upon  this  design. 
But  his  heart  failed  him  so  much  as  he  approached  the  scene  of 
action,  that  although  he  arrived  on  the  ground  at  three  o’clock 
in  the  afternoon,  it  was  six  before  he  knocked  at  the  door. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


345 


Everything  happened  as  usual,  down  to  the  point  where 
Susan  said  her  young  Mistress  was  well,  and  Mr.  Toots  said 
it  was  of  no  consequence.  To  her  amazement,  Mr.  Toots, 
instead  of  going  off,  like  a  rocket,  after  that  observation,  lin¬ 
gered  and  chuckled. 

“  Perhaps  you’d  like  to  walk  upstairs,  sir  !  ”  said  Susan. 

“  Well,  I  think  I  will  come  in  !  ”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

But  instead  of  walking  upstairs,  the  bold  Toots  made  an 
awkward  plunge  at  Susan  when  the  door  was  shut,  and  embrac¬ 
ing  that  fair  creature,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

“  Go  along  with  you  !  ”  cried  Susan,  “  or  I’ll  tear  your  eyes 
out.” 

“  Just  another  !  ”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

“  Go  along  with  you  !  ”  exclaimed  Susan,  giving  him  a  push. 
“Innocents  like  you,  too!  Who’ll  begin  next?  Go  along, 
sir  !  ” 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could  hardly 
speak  out  for  laughing ;  but  Diogenes,  on  the  staircase,  hear¬ 
ing  a  rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a  shuffling  of  feet,  and  see¬ 
ing  through  the  banisters  that  there  was  some  contention  going 
on,  and  foreign  invasion  in  the  house,  formed  a  different  opin¬ 
ion,  dashed  down  to  the  rescue,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
had  Mr.  Toots  by  the  leg. 


MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 

E'  YEN  those  tokens  of  the  season  which  emphatically 
j  whispered  of  the  coming  winter,  graced  the  landscape, 
and,  for  the  moment,  tinged  its  livelier  features  with  no  oppres¬ 
sive  air  of  sadness.  The  fallen  leaves,  with  which  the  ground 
was  strewn,  gave  forth  a  pleasant  fragrance,  and  subduing  all 
harsh  sounds  of  distant  feet  and  wheels,  created  a  repose  in 
gentle  unison  with  the  light  scattering  of  seed  hither  and  thither 
15* 


34<3 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS , 


by  the  distant  husbandman,  and  with  the  noiseless  passage  of 
the  plough  as  it  turned  up  the  rich  brown  earth,  and  wrought  a 
graceful  pattern  in  the  stubbled  fields.  On  the  motionless 
branches  of  some  trees,  autumn  berries  hung  like  clusters  of 
coral  beads,  as  in  those  fabled  orchards  where  the  fruits  were 
jewels;  others,  stripped  of  all  their  garniture,  stood,  each  the 
centre  of  its  little  heap  of  bright  red  leaves,  watching  their  slow 
decay ;  others  again,  still  wearing  theirs,  had  them  all  crunched 
and  crackled  up,  as  though  they  had  been  burnt ;  about  the 
stems  of  some  were  piled,  in  ruddy  mounds,  the  apples  they 
had  borne  that  year ;  while  others  (hardy  evergreens,  this  class) 
showed  somewhat  stern  and  gloomy  in  their  vigor,  as  charged 
by  Nature  with  the  admonition  that  it  is  not  to  her  more  sensi¬ 
tive  and  joyous  favorites  she  grants  the  longest  term  of  life. 
Still  athwart  their  darker  boughs,  the  sunbeams  struck  out  paths 
of  deeper  gold  ;  and  the  red  light,  mantling  in  among  their 
swarthy  branches,  used  them  as  foils  to  set  its  brightness  off, 
and  aid  the  lustre  of  the  dying  day. 


ND  yet,”  said  Pinch,  pursuing  his  own  thoughts,  and  not 


l  \  this  last  remark  on  the  part  of  his  friend,  “  I  must  have 
a  good  deal  of  what  you  call  the  devil  in  me,  too,  or  how  could 
I  make  Pecksniff  so  uncomfortable?  I  wouldn’t  have  occa¬ 
sioned  him  so  much  distress — don’t  laugh,  please — for  a  mine 
of  money  ;  and  Heaven  knows  I  could  find  good  use  for  it  too, 
John.  How' grieved  he  was  !” 

“  He  grieved  !  ”  returned  the  other. 

“Why,  didn’t  you  observe  that  the  tears  were  almost  starting 

out  of  his  eyes !  ”  cried  Pinch.  “  Bless  my  soul,  John,  is  it 

* 

nothing  to  see  a  man  moved  to  that  extent,  and  know  one’s  self 
to  be  the  cause  !  And  did  you  hear  him  say  that  he  could  have 
shed  his  blood  for  me  ?  ” 

“  Do  you  want  any  blood  shed  for  you  ?  ”  returned  his  friend, 
with  considerable  irritation.  “  Does  he  shed  anything  for  you 
that  you  do  want  ?  Does  he  shed  employment  for  you,  in- 


PROMISCUOUS. 


347 


struction  for  you,  pocket-money  for  you  ?  Does  he  shed  even 
legs  of  mutton  for  you  in  any  decent  proportion  to  potatoes  and 
garden  stuff?  ” 


WHEN  Mr.  Pecksniff  and  the  two  young  ladies  got  into 
the  heavy  coach  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  they  found  it 
empty,  which  was  a  great  comfort ;  particularly  as  the  outside 
was  quite  full,  and  the  passengers  looked  very  frosty.  For  as 
Mr.  Pecksniff  justly  observed — when  he  and  his  daughters  had 
burrowed  their  feet  deep  in  the  straw,  wrapped  themselves  to 
the  chin,  and  pulled  up  both  windows— it  is  always  satisfactory 
to  feel,  in  keen  weather,  that  many  other  people  are  not  as 
warm  as  you  are.  And  this,  he  said,  was  quite  natural,  and  a 
very  beautiful  arrangement ;  not  confined  to  coaches,  but  ex¬ 
tending  itself  into  many  social  ramifications.  “For”  (he  ob¬ 
served),  “if  every  one  were  warm  and  well-fed,  we  should  lose 
the  satisfaction  of  admiring  the  fortitude  with  which  certain 
conditions  of  men  bear  cold  and  hunger.  And  if  we  were  no 
better  off  than  anybody  else,  what  would  become  of  our  sense 
of  gratitude  ;  which,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
as  he  shook  his  fist  at  a  beggar  who  wanted  to  get  lip  behind, 
“  is  one  of  the  holiest  feelings  of  our  common  nature.” 


u  T  NTERVIEW  succeeded  interview;  words  engendered 
JL  words,  as  they  always  do  ;  and  the  upshot  of  it  was,  that 
I  was  to  renounce  her,  or  be  renounced  by  him.  Now,  you 
must  bear  in  mind,  Pinch,  that  I  am  not  only  desperately  fond 
of  her  (for  though  she  is  poor,  her  beauty  and  intellect  would 
reflect  great  credit  on  anybody,  I  don’t  care  of  what  preten¬ 
sions,  who  might  become  her  husband),  but  that  a  chief  in¬ 
gredient  in  my  composition  is  a  most  determined — ” 

“  Obstinacy,”  suggested  Tom  in  perfect  good  faith.  But 
the  suggestion  was  not  so  well  received  as  he  had  expected  ; 
for  the  young  man  immediately  rejoined,  with  some  irritation, 

“  What  a  fellow  you  are,  Pinch  !  ” 


34§ 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  Tom,  “  I  thought  you  wanted  a 
word.” 

“I  didn’t  want  that  word,”  he  rejoined.  “I  told  you  ob¬ 
stinacy  was  no  part  of  my  character,  did  I  not  ?  I  was  going 
to  say,  if  you  had  given  me  leave,  that  a  chief  ingredient  in  my 
composition  is  a  most  determined  firmness.” 

“  Oh  !  ”  cried  Tom,  screwing  up  his  mouth,  and  nodding. 
“  Yes,  yes  ;  I  see  !  ” 

“  And  being  firm,”  pursued  Martin,  “  of  course  I  was  not 
going  to  yield  to  him,  or  give  way  by  so  much  as  the  thou¬ 
sandth  part  of  an  inch.” 

“No,  no,”  said  Tom. 

“  On  the  contrary,  the  more  he  urged,  the  more  I  was  de¬ 
termined  to  oppose  him.” 


UCH  liveliness  as  yours,  I  mean,  you  know,”  observed 


vJ)  Mr.  Jonas,  as  he  nudged  her  with  his  elbow.  “  I  should 
have  come  to  see  you  before,  but  I  didn’t  know  where  you 
was.  How  quick  you  hurried  off,  that  morning  !  ” 

“  I  was  amenable  to  my  papa’s  directions,”  said  Miss  Charity. 
“  I  wish  he  had  given  me  his  direction,”  returned  her  cousin, 
“  and  then  I  should  have  found  you  out  before.  Why,  I 
shouldn’t  have  found  you  even  now,  if  I  hadn’t  met  him  in  the 
street  this  morning.  What  a  sleek,  sly  chap  he  is  !  Just  like 
a  tom-cat,  an’t  he  ?  ” 

“  I  must  trouble  you  to  have  the  goodness  to  speak  more 
respectfully  of  my  papa,  Mr.  Jonas,”  said  Charity.  “  I  can’t 
allow  such  a  tone  as  that,  even  in  jest.” 

“  Ecod,  you  may  say  what  you  like  of  my  father,  then,  and 
so  I  give  you  leave,”  said  Jonas.  “  I  think  it’s  liquid  aggrava¬ 
tion  that  circulates  through  his  veins,  and  not  regular  blood. 
How  old  should  you  think  my  father  was,  cousin  ?  ” 

“Old,  no  doubt,”  replied  Miss  Charity;  “but  a  fine  old 
gentleman.” 

“  A  fine  old  gentleman  !  ”  repeated  Jonas,  giving  the  crown 


PROMISCUOUS. 


349 


of  his  hat  an  angry  knock.  u  Ah  !  it’s  time  he  was  thinking  of 
being  drawn  out  a  little  finer  too.  Why,  he’s  eighty  !  ” 

u  Is  he,  indeed  ?  ”  said  the  young  lady. 

“And  ecod,”  cried  Jonas,  u  now  he’s  gone  so  far  without 
giving  in,  I  don’t  see  much  to  prevent  his  being  ninety ;  no, 
nor  even  a  hundred.  Why,  a  man  with  any  feeling  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  being  eighty,  let  alone  more.  Where’s  his  re¬ 
ligion,  I  should  like  to  know,  when  he  goes  flying  in  the  face 
of  the  Bible  like  that  ?  Threescore-and-ten’s  the  mark ;  and 
no  man  with  a  conscience,  and  a  proper  sense  of  what’s  ex¬ 
pected  of  him,  has  any  business  to  live  longer.” 

Is  any  one  surprised  at  Mr.  Jonas  making  such  a  reference 
to  such  a  book  for  such  a  purpose  ?  Does  any  one  doubt  the 
old  saw,  that  the  Devil  (being  a  layman)  quotes  Scripture  for 
his  own  ends  ?  If  he  will  take  the  trouble  to  look  about  him, 
he  may  find  a  greater  number  of  confirmations  of  the  fact,  in 
the  occurrences  of  any  single  day,  than  the  steam-gun  can  dis¬ 
charge  balls  in  a  minute. 


IT  was  very  affecting,  very.  Nothing  more-  dismal  could 
have  been-  desired  by  the  most  fastidious  taste.  The 
gentleman  of  a  vocal  turn  was  head  mute,  or  chief  mourner ; 
Jinkins  took  the  bass ;  and  the  rest  took  anything  they  could 
get.  The  youngest  gentleman  blew  his  melancholy  into  a 
flute.  He  didn’t  blow  much  out  of  it,  but  that  was  all  the 
better.  If  the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs  and  Mrs.  Todgers  had  per¬ 
ished  by  spontaneous  combustion,  and  the  serenade  had  been 
in  honor  of  their  ashes,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  sur¬ 
pass  the  unutterable  despair  expressed  in  that  one  chorus,  “  Go 
where  glory  waits  thee  !  ”  It  was  a  requiem,  a  dirge,  a  moan, 
a  howl,  a  wail,  a  lament,  an  abstract  of  everything  that  is 
sorrowful  and  hideous  in  sound.  The  flute  of  the  youngest 
gentleman  was  wild  and  fitful.  It  came  and  went  in  gusts, 
like  the  wind.  For  a  long  time  together  he  seemed  to  have 
left  off,  and  when  it  was  quite  settled  by  Mrs.  Todgers  and  the 


35o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


young  ladies,  that,  overcome  by  his  feelings,  he  had  retired  in 
tears,  he  unexpectedly  turned  up  again  at  the  very  top  of  the 
tune,  gasping  for  breath.  He  was  a  tremendous  performer. 
There  was  no  knowing  where  to  have  him  ;  and  exactly  when 
you  thought  he  was  doing  nothing  at  all,  then  was  he  doing  the 
very  thing  that  ought  to  astonish  you  most. 


'  ^  HAT  excellent  gentleman,  deeming  that  the  mourner 

X  wanted  comfort,  and  that  high  feeding  was  likely  to  do 
him  infinite  service,  availed  himself  of  these  opportunities  to 
such  good  purpose,  that  they  kept  quite  a  dainty  table  during 
this  melancholy  season  :  with  sweetbreads,  stewed  kidneys,  oys¬ 
ters,  and  other  such  light  viands  for  supper  every  night ;  over 
which,  and  sundry  jorums  of  hot  punch,  Mr.  Pecksniff  deliv¬ 
ered  such  moral  reflections  and' spiritual  consolation  as  might 
have  converted  a  heathen- — especially  if  he  had  had  but  an  im¬ 
perfect  acquaintance  with  the  English  tongue. 


u  I  ?0R  myself,  my  conscience  is  my  bank.  I  have  a  trifle 
X  invested  there,  a  mere  trifle,  Mr.  Jones;  but  I  prize  it 
as  a  store  of  value,  I  assure  you.” 

The  good  man’s  enemies  would  have  divided  upon  this  ques¬ 
tion  into  two  parties.  One  would  have  asserted  without  scru¬ 
ple  that  if  Mr.  Pecksniff’s  conscience  were  his  bank,  and  he 
kept  a  running  account  there,  he  must  have  overdrawn  it  be¬ 
yond  all  mortal  means  of  computation.  The  ether  would  have 
contended  that  it  was  a  mere  fictitious  form ;  a  perfectly  blank 
book,  or  one  in  which  entries  were  only  made  with  a  peculiar 
kind  of  invisible  ink,  to  become  legible  at  some  indefinite  time; 
and  that  he  never  troubled  it  at  all. 

“It  would  sadly  pinch  and  cramp  me,  my  dear  friend,”  re¬ 
peated  Mr.  Pecksniff;  “but  Providence,  perhaps  I  may  be 
permitted  to  say  a  special  Providence,  has  blessed  my  endeav¬ 
ors,  and  I  could  guarantee  to  make  the  sacrifice.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


n  r'  T 

oo1 

A  question  of  philosophy  arises  here,  whether  Mr.  Pecksniff 
had  or  had  not  good  reason  to  say  that  he  was  specially  patron¬ 
ized  and  encouraged  in  his  undertakings.  All  his  life  long  he 
had  been  walking  up  and  down  the  narrow  ways  and  by-places, 
with  a  hook  in  one  hand  and  a  crook  in  the  other,  scraping  all 
sorts  of  valuable  odds  and  ends  into  his  pouch.  Now,  there 
being  a  special  Providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow,  it  follows 
(so  Mr.  Pecksniff  would  have  reasoned)  that  there  must  also  be 
a  special  Providence  in  the  alighting  of  the  stone,  or  stick,  or 
other  substance  which  is  aimed  at  the  sparrow.  And  Mr. 
Pecksniff’s  hook  or  crook  having  invariably  knocked  the  spar¬ 
row  on  the  head  and  brought  him  down,  that  gentleman  may 
have  been  led  to  consider  himself  as  specially  licensed  to  bag 
sparrows,  and  as  being  specially  seized  and  possessed  of  all  the 
birds  he  had  got  together.  That  many  undertakings,  national 
as  well  as  individual — but  especially  the  former — are  held  to 
be  specially  brought  to  a  glorious  and  successful  issue,  which 
never  could  be  so  regarded  on  any  other  process  of  reasoning, 
must  be  clear  to  all  men.  Therefore  the  precedents  would 
seem  to  show  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  had  good  argument  for  what 
he  said,  and  might  be  permitted  to  say  it,  and  did  not  say  it 
presumptuously,- vainly,  arrogantly,  but  in  a  spirit  of  high  faith 
and  great  wisdom,  meriting  all  praise. 


44  T  NEVER  see  sich  a  man.  He  wouldn’t  have  been 

X  washed,  if  he’d  had  his  own  way.” 

“  She  put  the  soap  in  my  mouth,”  said  the  unfortunate  pa¬ 
tient,  feebly. 

“  Couldn’t  you  keep  it  shut,  then  ?  ”  retorted  Mrs.  Prig. 
“Who  do  you  think’s  to  wash  one  feater,  and  miss  another,  and 
wear  one’s  eyes  out  with  all  manner  of  fine  work  of  that  de¬ 
scription,  for  half-a-crown  a  day  !  If  you  wants  to  be  tittivated, 
you  must  pay  accordin’:” 

“  Oh  dear  me  !  ”  cried  the  patient ;  “  oh  dear,  dear  !  ” 

“There!”  said  Mrs.  Prig,  “that’s  the  way  he’s  been  a-con- 


352 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ducting  of  himself,  Sarah,  ever  since  I  got  him  out  of  bed,  if 
you’ll  believe  it.” 

“  Instead  of  being  grateful,”  Mrs.  Gamp  observed,  “  for  all 
our  little  ways.  Oh,  fie  for  shame,  sir,  fie  for  shame  !  ” 

Here  Mrs.  Prig  seized  the  patient  by  the  chin,  and  began  to 
rasp  his  unhappy  head  with  a  hair-brush. 

“I  suppose  you  don’t  like  that,  neither!”  she  observed, 
stopping  to  look  at  him. 

It  was  just  possible  that  he  didn’t,  for  the  brush  was  a  speci¬ 
men  of  the  hardest  kind  of  instrument  producible  by  modern 
art,  and  his  very  eyelids  were  red  with  the  friction.  Mrs.  Prig 
was  gratified  to  observe  the  correctness  of  her  supposition,  and 
said  triumphantly,  “  She  know’d  as  much.” 

When  his  hair  was  smoothed  down  comfortably  into  his  eyes, 
Mrs.  Prig  and  Mrs.  Gamp  put  on  his  neckerchief,  adjusting 
his  shirt-collar  with  great  nicety,  so  that  the  starched  points 
should  also  invade  those  organs,  and  afflict  them  with  an  artifi¬ 
cial  ophthalmia.  His  waistcoat  and  coat  were  next  arranged, 
and  as  every  button  was  wrenched  into  a  wrong  button-hole, 
and  the  order  of  his  boots  was  reversed,  he  presented  on  the 
whole  rather  a  melancholy  appearance. 

“I  don’t  think  it’s  right,”  said  the  poor  weak  invalid.  “I 
feel  as  if  I  was  in  somebody  else’s  clothes.  I’m  all  on  one  side  ; 
and  you’ve  made  one  of  my  legs  shorter  than  the  other.  There’s 
a  bottle  in  my  pocket  too.  What  do  you  make  me  sit  upon  a 
bottle  for  ?  ” 

“  Deuce  take  the  man  !”  cried  Mrs.  Gamp,  drawing  it  forth. 
“  If  he  ain’t  been  and  got  my  night-bottle  here.  I  made  a  little 
cupboard  of  his  coat  when  it  hung  behind  the  door,  and  quite 
forgot  it,  Betsey.  You’ll  find  an  ingun  or  two,  and  a  little  tea 
and  sugar  in  his  t’other  pocket,  my  dear,  if  you’ll  just  be  good 
enough  to  take  ’em  out.” 

IT  may  be  observed,  that  having  provided  for  his  youngest 
daughter  that  choicest  of  blessings,  a  tender  and  indul¬ 
gent  husband ;  and  having  gratified  the  dearest  wish  of  his  pa- 


PROMISCUOUS. 


353 


rental  heart  by  establishing  her  in  life  so  happily,  he  renewed 
his  youth,  and  spreading  the  plumage  of  his  own  bright  con¬ 
science,  felt  himself  equal  to  all  kinds  of  flights.  It  is  cus¬ 
tomary  with  fathers  in  stage-plays,  after  giving  their  daughters 
to  the  men  of  their  hearts,  to  congratulate  themselves  on  hav¬ 
ing  no  other  business  on  their  hands  but  to  die  immediately, 
though  it  is  rarely  found  that  they  are  in  a  hurry  to  do  it.  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  being  a  father  of  a  more  sage  and  practical  class,  ap¬ 
peared  to  think  that  his  immediate  business  was  to  live ;  and 
having  deprived  himself  of  one  comfort,  to  surround  himself 
with  others. 

BUT  when  he  walked  into  the  parlor  where  the  old  man 
was  engaged  as  Jane  had  said,  with  pen  and  ink  and 
paper  on  a  table  close  at  hand  (for  Mr.  Pecksniff  was  always 
very  particular  to  have  him  well  supplied  with  writing  materials), 
he  became  less  cheerful.  Pie  was  not  angry,  he  was  not  vin¬ 
dictive,  he  was  not  cross,  he  was  not  moody,  but  he  was 
grieved;  he  was  sorely  grieved.  As  he  sat  down  by  the  old 
man’s  side,  two  tears,  not  tears  like  those  with  which  recording 
angels  blot  their  entries  out,  but  drops  so  precious  that  they 
use  them  for  their  ink,  stole  down  his  meritorious  cheeks. 

ANY  and  many  a  pleasant  stroll  they  had  among  the 


poultry  markets,  where  ducks  and  fowls,  with  necks 


unnaturally  long,  lay  stretched  out  in  pairs,  ready  for  cooking  ; 
where  there  were  speckled  eggs  in  mossy  baskets,  white  coun¬ 
try  sausages  beyond  impeachment  by  surviving  cat  or  dog,  or 
horse  or  donkey,  new  cheeses  to  any  wild  extent,  live  birds  in 
coops  and  cages,  looking  much  too  big  to  be  natural,  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  those  receptacles  being  much  too  little  ;  rabbits,  alive 
and  dead  innumerable.  Many  a  pleasant  stroll  they  had  among 
the  cool,  refreshing,  silvery  fish-stalls,  with  a  kind  of  moonlight 
effect  about  their  stock-in-trade,  excepting  always  for  the  ruddy 
lobsters. 


354 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


^Y\H  drat  you!”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  shaking  her  umbrella 
at  it,  “you’re  a  nice  spluttering  nisy  monster  for  a 
delicate  young  creetur  to  go  and  be  a  passenger  by  ;  ain’t  you  ! 
You  never  do  no  harm  in  that  way,  do  you  ?  With  your  ham¬ 
mering,  and  roaring,  and  hissing,  and  lamp-iling,  you  brute  ! 
Them  Gonfugion  steamers,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  shaking  her  um¬ 
brella  again,  “  has  done  more  to  throw  us  out  of  our  reg’lar 
work  and  bring  ewents  on  at  times  when  nobody  counted  on 
’em  (especially  them  screeching  railroad  ones),  than  all  the 
other  frights  that  ever  was  took.  I  have  heerd  of  one  young 
man,  a  guard  upon  a  railway,  only  three  years  opened — well 
does  Mrs.  Harris  know  him,  which  indeed  he  is  her  own  rela¬ 
tion  by  her  sister’s  marriage  with  a  master  sawyer — as  is  god¬ 
father  at  this  present  time  to  six-and-twenty  blessed  little  stran¬ 
gers,  equally  unexpected,  and  all  on  ’um  named  after  the  In- 
geins  as  was  the  cause.  Ugh  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  resuming 
her  apostrophe,  “one  might  easy  know  you  was  a  man’s  in¬ 
vention,  from  your  disregardlessness  of  the  weakness  of  our 
naturs,  so  one  might,  you  brute  !  ” 


'’’HP' HOUGH  lovers  are  remarkable  for  leaving  a  great  deal 
X  unsaid  on  all  occasions,  and  very  properly  desiring  to 
come  back  and  say  it,  they  are  remarkable  also  for  a  wonder¬ 
ful  power  of  condensation  ;  and  can,  in  one  way  or  other,  give 
utterance  to  more  language — eloquent  language — in  any  given 
short  space  of  time,  than  all  the  six  hundred  and  fifty-eight 
members  in  the  Commons  House  of  Parliament  of  the  United 
Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ;  who  are  strong  lovers, 
no  doubt,  but  of  their  country  only,  which  makes  all  the  differ¬ 
ence  ;  for  in  a  passion  of  that  kind  (which  is  not  always  re¬ 
turned),  it  is  the  custom  to  use  as  many  words  as  possible,  and 
express  nothing  whatever. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


355 


FROM  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

FLORA,  always  tall,  had  grown  to  be  very  broad  too,  and 
short  of  breath  ;  but  that  was  not  much.  Flora,  whom  he 
had  left  a  lily,  had  become  a  peony ;  but  that  was  not  much. 
Flora,  who  had  seemed  enchanting  in  all  she  said  and  thought, 
was  diffuse  and  silly.  That  was  much.  Flora,  who  had  been 
spoiled  and  artless  long  ago,  was  determined  to  be  spoiled  and 
artless  now.  That  was  a  fatal  blow. 

This  is  Flora  ! 

“  I  am  sure,”  giggled  Flora,  tossing  her  head  with  a  carica¬ 
ture  of  her  girlish  manner,  such  as  a  mummer  might  have  pre¬ 
sented  at  her  own  funeral,  if  she  had  lived  and  died  in  classical 
antiquity,  “  I  am  ashamed  to  see  Mr.  Clennam,  I  am  a  mere 
fright,  I  know  he’ll  find  me  fearfully  changed,  I  am  actually  an 
old  woman,  it’s  shocking  to  be  so  found  out,  it’s  really  shock¬ 
ing  !  ” 

He  assured  her  that  she  was  just  what  he  had  expected,  and 
that  time  had  not  stood  still  with  himself. 

“  Oh  !  But  with  a  gentleman  it’s  so  different,  and  really  you 
look  so  amazingly  well  that  you  have  no  right  to  say  anything 
of  the  kind,  while,  as  to  me,  you  know — oh  !  ”  cried  Flora  with 
a  little  scream,  “  I  am  dreadful !  ” 

The  Patriarch,  apparently  not  yet  understanding  his  own 
part  in  the  drama  under  representation,  glowed  with  vacant 
serenity. 

“But  if  we  talk  of  not  having  changed,”  said  Flora,  who, 
whatever  she  said,  never  once  came  to  a  full  stop,  “  look  at 
papa,  is  not  papa  precisely  what  he  was  when  you  went  away, 
isn’t  it  cruel  and  unnatural  of  papa  to  be  such  a  reproach  to 
his  own  child,  if  we  go  on  in  this  way  much  longer  people  who 
don’t  know  us  will  begin  to  suppose  that  I  am  papa’s  mamma  !  ” 
That  must  be  a  long  time  hence,  Arthur  considered. 

“  Oh,  Mr.  Clennam,  you  insincerest  of  creatures,”  said  Flora, 
“  I  perceive  already  you  have  not  lost  your  old  way  of  paying 


356 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


compliments,  your  old  way  when  you  used  to  pretend  to  be  so 
sentimentally  struck  you  know — at  least  I  don’t  mean  that,  I — ■ 
oh  I  don’t  know  what  I  mean  !  ”  Here  Flora  tittered  confus¬ 
edly,  and  gave  him  one  of  her  old  glances. 

The  Patriarch,  as  if  he  now  began  to  perceive  that  his  part 
in  the  piece  was  to  get  off  the  stage  as  soon  as  might  be,  rose, 
and  went  to  the  door  by  which  Pancks  had  worked  out  hailing 
that  Tug  by  name.  He  received  an  answer  from  some  little 
Dock  beyond,  and  was  towed  out  of  sight  directly. 

“You  mustn’t  think  of  going  yet,”  said  Flora— Arthur  had 
looked  at  his  hat,  being  in  a  ludicrous  dismay,  and  not  knowing 
what  to  do ;  “  you  could  never  be  so  unkind  as  to  think  of 
going,  Arthur — I  mean  Mr.  Arthur — or  I  suppose  Mr.  Clen- 
nam  would  be  far  more  proper — but  I  am  sure  I  don’t  know 
what  I  am  saying — without  a  word  about  the  dear  old  days 
gone  forever,  however  when  I  come  to  think  of  it  I  dare  say  it 
would  be  much  better  not  to  speak  of  them  and  it’s  highly  prob¬ 
able  that  you  have  some  much  more  agreeable  engagement 
and  pray  let  Me  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  interfere 
with  it  though  there  was  a  time,  but  I  am  running  into  non¬ 
sense  again.” 

Was  it  possible  that  Flora  could  have  been  such  a  chatterer, 
in  the  days  she  referred  to  ?  Could  there  have  been  anything 
like  her  present  disjointed  volubility,  in  the  fascinations  that 
had  captivated  him  ? 

“  Indeed  I  have  little  doubt,”  said  Flora,  running  on  with 
astonishing  speed,  and  pointing  her  conversation  with  nothing 
but  commas,  and  very  few  of  them,  “  that  you  are  married  to 
some  Chinese  lady,  being  in  China  so  long  and  being  in  busi¬ 
ness  and  naturally  desirous  to  settle  and  extend  your  connec¬ 
tion  nothing  was  more  likely  than  that  you  should  propose  to  a 
Chinese  lady  and  nothing  was  more  natural  I  am  sure  than  that 
the  Chinese  lady  should  accept  you  and  think  herself  very  well 
off  too,  I  only  hope  she’s  not  a  Pagodian  dissenter.” 

“  I  am  not,”  returned  Arthur,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself, 
“married  to  any  lady,  Flora.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


357 


“  Oh  good  gracious  me  I  hope  you  never  kept  yourself  a 
bachelor  so  long  on  my  account !  ”  tittered  Flora  ;  “  but  of 
course  you  never  did  why  should  you,  pray  don’t  answer,  I 
don’t  know  where  I’m  running  to,  oh  do  tell  me  something 
about  the  Chinese  ladies  whether  their  eyes  are  really  so  long 
and  narrow  always  putting  me  in  mind  of  mother-of-pearl  fish 
at  cards  and  do  they  really  wear  tails  down  their  backs  and 
plaited  too  or  is  it  only  the  men,  and  when  they  pull  their  hair 
so  very  tight  off  their  foreheads  don’t  they  hurt  themselves,  and 
why  do  they  stick  little  bells  all  over  their  bridges  and  temples 
and  hats  and  things  or  don’t  they  really  do  it?”  Flora  gave 
him  another  of  her  old  glances.  Instantly  she  went  on  again, 
as  if  he  had  spoken  in  reply  for  some  time. 

U\I  J  HAT  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  sir,”  said  Little  Dorrit, 
V  V  “  is,  that  my  brother  is  at  large.” 

Arthur  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  hoped  he  would  do  well. 

“  And  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  sir,”  said  Little  Dorrit, 
trembling  in  all  her  little  figure  and  in  her  voice,  “is,  that  I  am 
not  to  know  whose  generosity  released  him — am  never  to  ask, 
and  am  never  to  be  told,  and  am  never  to  thank  that  gentle¬ 
man  with  all  my  grateful  heart !  ” 

He  would  probably  need  no  thanks,  Clennam  said.  Very 
likely  he  would  be  thankful  himself  (and  with  reason),  that  he 
had  had  the  means  and  chance  of  doing  a  little  service  to  her, 
who  well  deserved  a  great  one. 

“  And  what  I  was  going  to  say,  sir,  is,”  said  Little  Dorrit 
trembling  more  and  more,  “that  if  I  knew  him,  and  I  might,  I 
would  tell  him  that  he  can  never,  never  know  how  I  feel  his 
goodness,  and  how  my  good  father  would  feel  it.  And  what  I 
was  going  to  say,  sir,  is,  that  if  I  knew  him,  and  I  might — but 
I  don’t  know  him  and  I  must  not — I  know  that ! — I  would  tell 
him  that  I  shall  never  any  more  lie  down  to  sleep,  without 
having  prayed  to  Heaven  to  bless  him  and  reward  him.  And 
if  I  knew  him,  and  I  might,  I  would  go  down  on  my  knees  to 
him,  and  take  his  hand  and  kiss  it,  and  ask  him  not  to  draw  it 


35^ 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


away,  but  to  leave  it — 0  to  leave  it  for  a  moment — and  let  my 
thankful  tears  fall  on  it,  for  I  have  no  other  thanks  to  give 
him  !  ” 

Little  Dorrit  had  put  his  hand  to  her  lips,  and  would  have 
kneeled  to  him  ,  but  he  gently  prevented  her,  and  replaced  her 
in  her  chair.  Her  eyes,  and  the  tones  of  her  voice,  had  thanked 
him  far  better  than  she  thought. 

DEAR  Mr.  Clennam,  I  have  written  a  great  deal  about 
myself,  but  I  must  write  a  little  more  still,  or  what  I 
wanted  most  of  all  to  say  in  this  weak  letter  would  be  left  out 
of  it.  In  all  these  foolish  thoughts  of  mine,  which  I  have  been 
so  hardy  as  to  confess  to  you  because  I  know  you  will  under¬ 
stand  me  if  anybody  can,  and  will  make  more  allowance  for 
me  than  anybody  else  would  if  you  cannot — in  all  these  thoughts 
there  is  one  thought  scarcely  ever — never — out  of  my  memory, 
and  that  is  that  I  hope  you  sometimes,  in  a  quiet  moment,  have 
a  thought  for  me.  I  must  tell  you  that  as  to  this,  I  have  felt, 
ever  since  I  have  been  away,  an  anxiety  which  I  am  very  very 
anxious  to  relieve.  I  have  been  afraid  that  you  may  think  of 
me  in  a  new  light,  or  a  new  character.  Don’t  do  that,  I  could 
not  bear  that — it  would  make  me  more  unhappy  than  you  can 
suppose.  It  would  break  my  heart  to  believe  that  you  thought 
of  me  in  any  way  that  would  make  me  stranger  to  you  than  I 
was  when  you  were  so  good  to  me.  What  I  have  to  pray  and 
entreat  of  you  is,  that  you  will  never  think  of  me  as  the  daugh¬ 
ter  of  a  rich  person ;  that  you  will  never  think  of  me  as  dress¬ 
ing  any  better,  or  living  any  better,  than  when  you  first  knew 
me.  That  you  will  remember  me  only  as  the  little  shabby  girl 
you  protected  with  so  much  tenderness,  from  whose  threadbare 
dress  you  have  kept  away  the  rain,  and  whose  wet  feet  you 
have  dried  at  your  fire.  That  you  will  think  of  me  (when  you 
think  of  me  at  all),  and  of  my  true  affection  and  devoted  grati¬ 
tude,  always  without  change,  as  of 

Your  poor  child, 

Little  Dorrit. 


PROMISCUOUS . 


359 


u  A  MY,”  said  Fanny  to  her,  one  night  when  they  were 
alone,  after  a  day  so  tiring  that  Little  Dorrit  was  quite 
worn  out,  though  Fanny  would  have  taken  another  dip  into 
society  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life,  “  I  am  going  to  put 
something  into  your  little  head.  You  won’t  guess  what  it  is,  I 
suspect.” 

“  I  don’t  think  that’s  likely,  dear,”  said  Little  Dorrit. 

“  Come,  I’ll  give  you  a  clue,  child,”  said  Fanny.  “  Mrs.  Gen¬ 
eral.” 

Prunes  and  Prism,  in  a  thousand  combinations,  having 
been  wearily  in  the  ascendant  all  day — everything  having  been 
surface  and  varnish,  and  show  without  substance — Little  Dor¬ 
rit  looked  as  if  she  had  hoped  that  Mrs.  General  was  safely 
tucked  up  in  bed  for  some  hours. 

“  Now  can  you  guess,  Amy  ?  ”  said  Fanny. 

“  No,  dear.  Unless  I  have  done  anything,”  said  Little  Dorrit, 
rather  alarmed,  and  meaning  anything  calculated  to  crack  var¬ 
nish  and  ruffled  surface. 

Fanny  was  so  very  much  amused  by  the  misgiving,  that  she 
took  up  her  favorite  fan  (being  then  seated  at  her  dressing- 
table  with  her  armory  of  cruel  instruments  about  her,  most  of 
them  reeking  from  the  heart  of  Sparkler),  and  tapped  her  sis¬ 
ter  frequently  on  the  nose  with  it,  laughing  all  the  time. 

“  Oh,  our  Amy,  our  Amy  !  ”  said  Fanny.  “  What  a  timid 
little  goose  our  Amy  is  !  But  this  is  nothing  to  laugh  at.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  very  cross,  my  dear.” 

“As  it  is  not  with  me,  Fanny,  I  don’t  mind,”  returned  her 
sister,  smiling. 

“Ah  !  But  I  do  mind,”  said  Fanny,  “and  so  will  you,  Pet, 
when  I  enlighten  you.  Amy,  has  it  never  struck  you  that 
somebody  is  monstrously  polite  to  Mrs.  General?” 

“  Everybody  is  polite  to  Mrs.  General,”  said  Little  Dorrit. 
Because —  ” 

“Because  she  freezes  them  into  it?”  interrupted  Fanny.  “I 
don’t  mean  that;  quite  different  from  that.  Come!  Has  it 


360  BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 

never  struck  you,  Amy,  that  pa  is  monstrously  polite  to  Mrs. 

General.” 

Amy,  murmuring  “  No,”  looked  quite  confounded. 

“  No  ;  I  dare  say  not.  But  he  is,”  said  Fanny  ;  “he  is,  Amy. 
And  remember  my  words.  Mrs.  General  has  designs  on  pa  !  ” 

“  Dear  Fanny,  do  you  think  it  possible  that  Mrs.  General 
has  designs  on  any  one  ?  ” 

“  Do  I  think  it  possible  ?  ”  retorted  Fanny.  “  My  love,  I 
know  it,  I  tell  you  she  has  designs  on  pa.  And  more  than  that, 

I  tell  you  pa  considers  her  such  a  wonder,  such  a  paragon  of 
accomplishment,  and  such  an  acquisition  to  our  family,  that 
he  is  ready  to  get  himself  into  a  state  of  perfect  infatuation 
with  her  at  any  moment.  And  that  opens  a  pretty  picture  of- 
things,  I  hope  !  Think  of  me  with  Mrs.  General  for  a  mamma  !  ” 

Little  Dorrit  did  not  reply,  “  Think  of  me  with  Mrs.  General 
for  a  mamma ;  ”  but  she  looked  anxious,  and  seriously  inquired 
what  had  led  Fanny  to  these  conclusions. 

“  Lard,  my  darling,”  said  Fanny,  tartly.  “  You  might  as  well 
ask  me  how  I  know  when  a  man  is  struck  with  myself !  But 
of  course  I  do  know.  It  happens  pretty  often ;  but  I  always 
know  it.  I  know  this,  in  much  the  same  way,  I  suppose.  At 
all  events,  I  know  it.” 

“You  never  heard  papa  say  anything?”  repeated  Fanny. 
“My«  dearest,  darling  child,  what  necessity ‘has  he  had,  yet 
awhile,  to  say  anything  ?  ” 

“  And  you  have  never  heard  Mrs.  General  say  anything  ?  ” 

“  My  goodness  me,  Amy,”  returned  Fanny,  “  is  she  the  sort 
of  woman  to  say  anything  ?  Isn’t  it  perfectly  plain  and  clear 
that  she  has  nothing  to  do,  at  present,  but  to  hold  herself  up¬ 
right,  keep  her  aggravating  gloves  on,  and  go  sweeping  about  ? 
Say  anything !  If  she  had  the  ace  of  trumps  in  her  hand,  at 
whist,  she  wouldn’t  say  anything,  child.  It  would  come  out 
when  she  played  it.” 

“At  least,  you  may,  be  mistaken,  Fanny.  Now  may  you 
not  ?  ” 

“O  yes,  I  may  be,”  said  Fanny,  “but  I  am  not.  However, 


PROMISCUOUS. 


361 


I  am  glad  you  can  contemplate  such  an  escape,  my  dear,  and 
I  am  glad  that  you  can  take  this  for  the  present  with  sufficient 
coolness  to  think  of  such  a  chance.  It  makes  me  hope  that 
you  may  be  able  to  bear  the  connection.  I  should  not  be 
able  to  bear  it,  and  I  should  not  try.  I’d  marry  young  Spark¬ 
ler  first.” 

“Oh,  you  would  never  marry  him,  Fanny,  under  any  cir¬ 
cumstances.” 

“Upon  my  word,  my  dear,”  rejoined  that  young  lady,  with 
exceeding  indifference,  “I  wouldn’t  positively  answer  even  for 
that.  There’s  no  knowing  what  might  happen.  Especially  as 
I  should  have  many  opportunities,  afterwards,  of  treating  that 
woman,  his  mother,  in  her  own  style.  Which  I  most  decidedly 
should  not  be  slow  to  avail  myself  of,  Amy.” 

66  T  BEG  Mr.  Dorrit  to  offer  a  thousand  apologies  and  in- 

JL  deed  they  would  be  far  too  few  for  such  an  intrusion 
which  I  know  must  appear  extremely  bold  in  a  lady  and  alone 
too,  but  I  thought  it  best  upon  the  whole  however  difficult  and 
even  apparently  improper  though  Mr.  F.’s  aunt  would  have 
willingly  accompanied  me  and  as  a  character  of  great  force  and 
spirit  would  probably  have  struck  one  possessed  of  such  a 
knowledge  of  life  as  no  doubt  with  so  many  changes  must  have 
been  acquired,  for  Mr.  F.  himself  said  frequently  that  although 
well  educated  in  the  neighborhood  of  Blackheath  at  as  high  as 
eighty  guineas  which  is  a  good  deal  for  parents  and  the  plate 
kept  back  too  on  going  away,  but  that  is  more  a  meanness 
than  its  value  that  he  had  learned  more  in  his  first  year  as  a 
commercial  traveller  with  a  large  commission  on  the  sale  of  an 
article  that  nobody  would  hear  of,  much  less  buy,  which  pre¬ 
ceded  the  wine  trade  a  long  time  than  in  the  whole  six  years 
in  that  academy  conducted  by  a  college  Bachelor,  though  why 
a  Bachelor  more  clever  than  a  married  man  I  do  not  see  and 
never  did  ;  but  pray  excuse  me  that  is  not  the  point.” 

Mr.  Dorrit  stood  rooted  to  the  carpet,  a  statue  of  mystifica¬ 
tion. 


16 


362 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


AT  the  close  of  the  evening  when  she  rose  to  retire,  Mr. 

Dorrit  took  her  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  going  to  lead 
her  out  into  the  Piazza  of  the  People  to  walk  a  minuet  by 
moonlight,  and  with  great  solemnity  conducted  her  to  the 
room  door,  where  he  raised  her  knuckles  to  his  lips.  Having 
parted  from  her  with  what  may  be  conjectured  to  have  been 
a  rather  bony  kiss,  of  a  cosmetic  flavor,  he  gave  his  daughter 
his  blessing,  graciously.  And  having  thus  hinted  that  there 
was  something  remarkable  in  the  wind,  he  again  went  to  bed. 

THE  report  that  the  great  man  was  dead,  got  about  with 
astonishing  rapidity.  At  first,  he  was  dead  of  all  the 
diseases  that  ever  were  known,  and  of  several  bran-new  mala¬ 
dies  invented  with  the  speed  of  Light  to  meet  the  demand  of 
the  occasion.  He  had  concealed  a  dropsy  from  infancy,  he  had 
inherited  a  large  estate  of  water  on  the  chest  from  his  grand¬ 
father,  he  had  had  an  operation  performed  upon  him  every 
morning  of  his  life  for  eighteen  years,  he  had  been  subject  to 
the  explosion  of  important  veins  in  his  body  after  the  man¬ 
ner  of  fireworks,  he  had  had  something  the  matter  with  his 
lungs,  he  had  had  something  the  matter  with  his  heart,  he  had 
had  something  the  matter  with  his  brain.  Five  hundred  peo¬ 
ple  who  sat  down  to  breakfast  entirely  uninformed  on  the  whole 
subject,  believed  before  they  had  done  breakfast,  that  they 
privately  and  personally  knew  Physician  to  have  said  to  Mr. 
Merdle,  “You  must  expect  to  go  out,  some  day,  like  the  snuff 
of  a  candle,”  and  that  they  knew  Mr.  Merdle  to  have  said  to 
Physician,  “A  man  can  die  but  once.”  By  about  eleven 
o’clock  in  the  forenoon,  something  the  matter  with  the  brain 
became  the  favorite  theory  against  the  field  ;  and  by  twelve  the 
something  had  been  distinctly  ascertained  to  be  “  Pressure.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


363 


FROM  OLIVER  TWIST. 

66  T  HAVE  taken  the  measure  of  the  two  women  that  died 

X  last  night,  Mr.  Bumble,”  said  the  undertaker. 

“You’ll  make  your  fortune,  Mr.  Sowerbeny,”  said  the  beadle, 
as  he  thrust  his  thumb  and  forefinger  into  the  proffered  snuff¬ 
box  of  the  undertaker,  which  was  an  ingenious  little  model  of 
a  patent  coffin.  “  I  say  you’ll  make  your  fortune,  Mr.  Sower- 
berry,”  repeated  Mr.  Bumble,  tapping  the  undertaker  on  the 
shoulder,  in  a  friendly  manner,  with  his  cane. 

“Think  so?”  said  the  undertaker  in  a  tone  which  half  ad¬ 
mitted  and  half  disputed  the  probability  of  the  event.  “The 
prices  allowed  by  the  board  are  very  small,  Mr.  Bumble.” 

“  So  are  the  coffins,”  replied  the  beadle,  with  precisely  as 
near  an  approach  to  a  laugh  as  a  great  official  ought  to 
indulge  in. 

Mr.  Sowerberry  was  much  tickled  at  this,  as  of  course  he 
ought  to  be,  and  laughed  a  long  time  without  cessation. 
“Well,  well,  Mr.  Bumble,”  he  said  at  length,  “there’s  no 
denying  that,  since  the  new  system  of  feeding  has  come  in,  the 
coffins  are  something  narrower  and  more  shallow  than  they 
used  to  be ;  but  we  must  have  some  profit,  Mr.  Bumble. 
Well-seasoned  timber  is  an  expensive  article,  sir ;  and  all  the 
iron  handles  come  by  canal,  from  Birmingham.” 

“Well,  well,”  said  Mr.  Bumble,  “every  trade  has  its  draw¬ 
backs.  A  fair  profit  is,  of  course,  allowable.” 

“Of  course,  of  course,”  replied  the  undertaker;  “and  if  I 
don’t  get  a  profit  upon  this  or  that  particular  article,  why,  I 
make  it  up  in  the  long  run,  you  see — he  !  he  !  he  !  ” 

“Just  so,”  said  Mr.  Bumble. 

“Though  I  must  say,”  continued  the  undertaker,  resuming 
the  current  of  observations  which  the  beadle  had  interrupted, 
— 11  though  I  must  say,  Mr.  Bumble,  that  I  have  to  contend 
against  one  very  great  disadvantage  :  which  is,  that  all  the 
stout  people  go  off  the  quickest.  The  people  who  have  been 


36  4 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


better  off,  and  have  paid  rates  for  many  years,  are  the  first  to 
sink  when  they  come  into  the  house ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Mr. 
Bumble,  that  three  or  four  inches  over  one’s  calculation  makes 
a  great  hole  in  one’s  profits ;  especially  when  one  has  a  family 
to  provide  for,  sir.” 

OLIVER  rose  next  morning,  in  better  heart,  and  went 
about  his  usual  early  occupations,  with  more  hope  and 
pleasure  than  he  had  known  for  many  days.  The  birds  were 
once  more  hung  out  to  sing,  in  their  old  places ;  and  the 
sweetest  wild  -  flowers  that  could  be  found  were  once  more 
gathered  to  gladden  Rose  with  their  beauty.  The  melancholy 
which  had  seemed  to  the  sad  eyes  of  the  anxious  boy  to  hang, 
for  days  past,  over  every  object,  beautiful  as  all  were,  was  dis¬ 
pelled  by  magic.  The  dew  seemed  to  sparkle  more  brightly 
on  the  green  leaves  ;  the  air  to  rustle  among  them  with  a 
sweeter  music  ;  and  the  sky  itself  to  look  more  blue  and  bright. 
Such  is  the  influence  which  the  condition  of  our  own  thoughts 
exercises,  even  over  the  appearance  of  external  objects.  Men 
who  look  on  nature  and  their  fellow-men,  and  cry  that  all  is 
dark  and  gloomy,  are  in  the  right ;  but  the  sombre  colors  are 
reflections  from  their  own  jaundiced  eyes  and  hearts.  The 
real  hues  are  delicate,  and  need  a  clearer  vision. 

r  j  “'HE  girl  had  taken  a  few  restless  turns  to  and  fro — closely 
JL  watched,  meanwhile,  by  her  hidden  observer — when  the 
heavy  bell  of  St.  Paul’s  tolled  for  the  death  of  another  day. 
Midnight  had  come  upon  the  crowded  city.  The  palace,  the 
night-cellar,  the  jail,  the  mad-house  ;  the  chambers  of  birth  and 
death,  of  health  and  sickness  ;  the  rigid  face  of  the  corpse,  and 
the  calm  sleep  of  the  child  :  midnight  was  upon  them  all. 

THE  conference  was  a  long  one.  Oliver  told  them  all  his 
simple  history,  and  was  often  compelled  to  stop,  by  pain 
and  want  of  strength.  It  was  a  solemn  thing,  to  hear,  in  the 


PROMISCUOUS. 


365 


darkened  room,  the  feeble  voice  of  the  sick  child  recounting  a 
weary  catalogue  of  evils  and  calamities  which  hard  men  had 
brought  upon  him.  Oh  !  if,  when  we  oppress  and  grind  our 
fellow-creatures,  we  bestowed  but  one  thought  on  the  dark 
evidences  of  human  error,  which,  like  dense  and  heavy  clouds, 
are  rising,  slowly,  it  is  true,  but  not  less  surely,  to  Heaven,  to 
pour  their  after-vengeance  on  our  heads ;  if  we  heard  but  one 
instant,  in  imagination,  the  deep  testimony  of  dead  men’s 
voices,  which  no  power  can  stifle,  and  no  pride  shut  out,  where 
would  be  the  injury  and  injustice,  the  suffering,  misery,  cruelty, 
and  wrong,  that  each  day’s  life  brings  with  it  ? 

Oliver’s  pillow  was  smoothed  by  gentle  hands  that  night,  and 
loveliness  and  virtue  watched  him  as  he  slept.  He  felt  calm 
and  happy,  and  could  have  died  without  a  murmur. 

THE  younger  lady  was  in  the  lovely  bloom  and  spring¬ 
time  of  womanhood  ;  at  that  age,  when,  if  ever  angels 
be  for  God’s  good  purposes  enthroned  in  mortal  forms,  they 
may  be,  without  impiety,  supposed  to  abide  in  such  as  hers. 

She  was  not  past  seventeen.  Cast  in  so  slight  and  exqui¬ 
site  a  mould,  so  mild  and  gentle,  so  pure  and  beautiful,  that 
earth  seemed  not  her  element,  nor  its  rough  creatures  her 
fit  companions.  The  very  intelligence  that  shone  in  her  deep- 
blue  eye,  and  was  stamped  upon  her  noble  head,  seemed 
scarcely  of  her  age  or  of  the  world  ;  and  yet  the  changing  ex¬ 
pression  of  sweetness  and  good-humor,  the  thousand  lights  that 
played  about  the  face,  and  left  no  shadow  there  ;  above  all, 
the  smile,  the  cheerful,  happy  smile,  were  made  for  Home,  and 
fireside  peace  and  happiness. 

ALAS  !  how  few  of  Nature’s  faces  are  left  to  gladden  us 
with  their  beauty  !  The  cares,  and  sorrows,  and  hunger- 
ings  of  the  world,  change  them  as  they  change  hearts ;  and  it 
is  only  when  those  passions  sleep,  and  have  lost  their  hold  for- 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ever,  that  the  troubled  clouds  pass  off,  and  leave  Heaven’s  sur¬ 
face  clear.  It  is  a  common  thing  for  the  countenances  of  the 
dead,  even  in  that  fixed  and  rigid  state,  to  subside  into  the 
long-forgotten  expression  of  sleeping  infancy,  and  settle  into 
the  very  look  of  early  life  ;  so  calm,  so  peaceful  do  they  grow 
again,  that  those  who  knew  them  in  their  happy  childhood 
kneel  by  the  coffin’s  side  in  awe,  and  see  the  Angel  even  upon 
earth. 


Y  dear  child,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  moved  by  the 


warmth  of  Oliver’s  sudden  appeal ;  “  you  need  not  be 


afraid  of  my  deserting  you,  unless  you  give  me  cause.” 

“  I  never,  never  will,  sir,”  interposed  Oliver. 

“I  hope  not,”  rejoined  the  old  gentleman.  “I  do  not 
think  you  ever  will ;  I  have  been  deceived  before  in  the  ob¬ 
jects  whom  I  have  endeavored  to  benefit ;  but  I  feel  strongly 
disposed  to  trust  you,  nevertheless  ;  and  I  am  more  interested 
in  your  behalf  than  I  can  well  account  for,  even  to  myself. 
The  persons  on  whom  I  have  bestowed  my  dearest  love  lie 
deep  in  their  graves ;  but,  although  the  happiness  and  delight 
of  my  life  lie  buried  there  too,  I  have  not  made  a  coffin  of 
my  heart,  and  sealed  it  up  forever,  on  my  best  affections. 
Deep  affliction  has  but  strengthened  and  refined  them. 

nr  VERYBODY  knows  the  story  of  another  experimental 


philosopher,  who  had  a  great  theory  about  a  horse  being 
able  to  live  without  eating,  and  who  demonstrated  it  so  well, 
that  he  got  his  own  horse  down  to  a  straw  a  day,  and  would 
most  unquestionably  have  rendered  him  a  very  spirited  and 
rampacious  animal  on  nothing  at  all,  if  he  had  not  died,  just 
four-and-twenty  hours  before  he  was  to  have  had  his  first 
comfortable  bait  of  air.  Unfortunately  for  the  experimental 
philosophy  of  the  female  to  whose  protecting  care  Oliver 
Twist  was  delivered  over,  a  similar  result  usually  attended  the 


PROMISCUOUS. 


36  7 


operation  of  her  system  ;  for  at  the  very  moment  when  a  child 
had  contrived  to  exist  upon  the  smallest  possible  portion  of  the 
weakest  possible  food,  it  did  perversely  happen  in  eight  and  a 
half  cases  out  of  ten,  either  that  it  sickened  from  want  and 
cold,  or  fell  into  the  fire  from  neglect,  or  got  half  smothered 
by  accident ;  in  any  one  of  which  cases  the  miserable  little  being 
was  usually  summoned  into  another  world,  and  there  gathered 
to  the  fathers  it  had  never  known  in  this. 


FROM  BLEAK  HOUSE. 

44  T  T’S  only  you,  the  generous  creatures,  whom  I  envy,”  said 
JL  Mr.  Skimpole,  addressing  us,  his  new  friends,  in  an  im¬ 
personal  manner.  “  I  envy  you  your  power  of  doing  what  you 
do.  It  is  what  I  should  revel  in,  myself.  I  don’t  feel  any  vul¬ 
gar  gratitude  to  you.  I  almost  feel  as  if  you  ought  to  be  grate¬ 
ful  to  me ,  for  giving  you  the  opportunity  of  enjoying  the  luxury 
of  generosity.  I  know  you  like  it.  For  anything  I  can  tell, 
I  may  have  come  into  the  world  expressly  for  the  purpose  of 
increasing  your  stock  of  happiness.  I  may  have  been  born  to 
be  a  benefactor  to  you,  by  sometimes  giving  you  an  opportu¬ 
nity  of  assisting  me  in  my  little  perplexities.  Why  should  I 
regret  my  incapacity  for  details  and  worldly  affairs,  when  it 
leads  to  such  pleasant  consequences  ?  I  don’t  regret  it,  there¬ 
fore.” 


MR.  SKIMPOLE  was  as  agreeable  at  breakfast  as  he  had 
been  overnight.  There  was  honey  on  the  table,  and  it 
led  him  into  a  discourse  about  Bees.  He  had  no  objection  to 
honey,  he  said  (and  I  should  think  he  had  not,  for  he  seemed 
to  like  it),  but  he  protested  against  the  overweening  assump¬ 
tions  of  Bees.  He  didn’t  at  all  see  why  the  busy  Bee  should 


368 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


be  proposed  as  a  model  to  him  ;  he  supposed  the  Bee  liked  to 
make  honey,  or  he  wouldn’t  do  it — nobody  asked  him.  It  was 
not  necessary  for  the  Bee  to  make  such  a  merit  of  his  tastes. 
If  every  confectioner  went  buzzing  about  the  world,  banging 
against  everything  that  came  in  his  way,  and  egotistically  call¬ 
ing  upon  everybody  to  take  notice  that  he  was  going  to  his 
work,  and  must  not  be  interrupted,  the  world  would  be  quite  an 
unsupportable  place.  Then,  after  all,  it  was  a  ridiculous  posi¬ 
tion  to  be  smoked  out  of  your  fortune  with  brimstone,  as  soon 
as  you  had  made  it.  You  would  have  a  very  mean  opinion  of 
a  Manchester  man,  if  he  spun  cotton  for  no  other  purpose.  He 
must  say  he  thought  a  Drone  the  embodiment  of  a  pleasanter 
and  wiser  idea.  The  Drone  said  unaffectedly,  “You  will 
excuse  me,  I  really  cannot  attend  to  the  shop  !  I  find  myself 
in  a  world  in  which  there  is  so  much  to  see,  and  so  short  a  time 
to  see  it  in,  that  I  must  take  the  liberty  of  looking  about  me, 
and  begging  to  be  provided  for  by  somebody  who  doesn’t  want 
to  look  about  him.”  This  appeared  to  Mr.  Skimpole  to  be  the 
Drone  philosophy,  and  he  thought  it  a  very  good  philosophy — - 
always  supposing  the  Drone  to  be  willing  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  the  Bee  ;  which,  so  far  as  he  knew,  the  easy  fellow  always 
was,  if  the  consequential  creature  would  only  let  him,  and  not 
be  so  conceited  about  his  honey  ! 

He  pursued  this  fancy,  with  the  lightest  foot,  over  a  variety 
of  ground,  and  made  us  all  merry  ;  though  again  he  seemed  to 
have  as  serious  a  meaning  in  what  he  said  as  he  was  capable  of 
having.  I  left  them  still  listening  to  him,  when  I  withdrew  to 
attend  to  my  new  duties. 

HE  number  of  little  acts  of  thoughtless  expenditure  which 


X  Richard  justified  by  the  recovery  of  his  ten  pounds,  and 
the  number  of  times  he  talked  to  me  as  if  he  had  saved  or 
realized  that  amount,  would  form  a  sum  in  simple  addition. 

u  My  prudent  Mother  Hubbard,  why  not  ?  ”  he  said  to  me, 
when  he  wanted,  without  the  least  consideration,  to  bestow 


PROMISCUOUS.  3  69 

five  pounds  on  the  brick-maker.  “  I  made  ten  pounds,  clear, 
out  of  Coavinses’  business.” 

“  How  was  that  ?  ”  said  I. 

“  Why,  I  got  rid  of  ten  pounds  which  I  was  quite  content  to 
get  rid  of,  and  never  expected  to  see  any  more.  You  don’t  deny 
that  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  I. 

“  Very  well  !  then  I  came  into  possession  of  ten  pounds — ” 

“  The  same  ten  pounds,”  1  hinted. 

“That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it !  ”  returned  Richard.  “  I 
have  got  ten  pounds  more  than  I  expected  to  have,  and  conse¬ 
quently  I  can  afford  to  spend  it  without  being  particular.” 

In  exactly  the  same  way,  when  he  was  persuaded  out  of  the 
sacrifice  of  these  five  pounds,  by  being  convinced  that  it  would 
do  no  good,  he  carried  that  sum  to  his  credit,  and  drew  upon 
it. 

“  Let  me  see  !  ”  he  would  say.  “  I  saved  five  pounds  out  of 
the  brick-maker’s  affair;  so,  if  I  have  a  good  rattle  to  London 
and  back  in  a  post-chaise,  and  put  that  down  at  four  pounds,  I 
shall  have  saved  one.  And  it’s  a  very  good  thing  to  save  one? 
let  me  tell  you;  a  penny  saved  is  a  penny  got.” 


THEN  there  is  my  Lord  Boodle,  of  considerable  reputa¬ 
tion  with  his  party,  who  has  known  what  office  is,  and 
who  tells  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  with  much  gravity,  after 
dinner,  that  he  really  does  not  see  to  what  the  present  age  is 
tending.  A  debate  is  not  what  a  debate  used  to  be ;  the 
House  is  not  what  the  House  used  to  be  ;  even  a  Cabinet  is 
not  what  it  formerly  was.  He  perceives,  with  astonishment, 
that  supposing  the  present  Government  to  be  overthrown,  the 
limited  choice  of  the  Crown,  in  the  formation  of  a  new  minis¬ 
try,  would  lie  between  Lord  Coodle  and  Sir  Thomas  Doodle — 
supposing  it  to  be  impossible  for  the  Duke  of  Foodie  to  act 
with  Goodie,  which  may  be  assumed  to  be  the  case  in  conse¬ 
quence  of  the  breach  arising  out  of  that  affair  with  Hoodie. 
10* 


37o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Then,  giving  the  Home  Department,  and  the  Leadership  of  the 
House  of  Commons  to  Joodle,  the  Exchequer  to  Koodle,  the 
Colonies  to  Loodle,  and  the  Foreign  Office  to  Moodle,  what 
are  you  to  do  with  Noodle?  You  can’t  offer  him  the  Presi¬ 
dency  of  the  Council ;  that  is  reserved  for  Poodle.  You  can’t 
put  him  in  the  Woods  and  Forests  ;  that  is  hardly  good  enough 
for  Quoodle.  What  follows?  That  the  country  is  ship¬ 
wrecked,  lost,  and  gone  to  pieces  (as  is  made  manifest  to  the 
patriotism  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock),  because  you  can’t  provide 
for  Noodle  ! 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Right  Honorable  William  Buffy, 
M.P.,  contends  across  the  table  with  some  one  else,  that  the 
shipwreck  of  the  country — about  which  there  is  no  doubt ;  it 
is  only  the  manner  of  it  that  is  in  question — is  attributable  to 
Cuffy.  If  you  had  done  with  Cuffy  what  you  ought  to  have 
done  when  he  first  came  into  Parliament,  and  had  prevented 
him  from  going  over  to  Duffy,  you  would  have  got  him  into 
alliance  with  Fuffy,  you  would  have  had  with  you  the  weight 
attaching  as  a  smart  debater  to  Cuffy,  you  would  have  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  elections  the  wealth  of  Huffy,  you  would  have 
got  in  for  three  counties  Juffy,  Kuffy,  and  Luffy,  and  you 
would  have  strengthened  your  administration  by  the  official 
knowledge  and  the  business  habits  of  Muffy.  All  this,  instead 
of  being  as  you  now  are,  dependent  on  the  mere  caprice  of 
Puffy ! 

MR.  GUPPY  suspects  everybody  who  enters  on  the  occu¬ 
pation  of  a  stool  in  Kenge  and  Carboy’s  office,  of 
entertaining,  as  a  matter  of  course,  sinister  designs  upon  him. 
He  is  clear  that  every  such  person  wants  to  depose  him.  If  he 
be  ever  asked  how,  why,  when,  or  wherefore,  he  shuts  up  one 
eye  and  shakes  his  head.  On  the  strength  of  these  profound 
views,  he,  in  the  most  ingenious  manner,  takes  infinite  pains  to 
counterplot,  when  there  is  no  plot ;  and  plays  the  deepest 
games  of  chess  without  any  adversary. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3  7i 


HE  was  charmed  to  see  me  ;  said  he  had  been  shedding 
delicious  tears  of  joy  and  sympathy,  at  intervals,  for  six 
weeks,  on  my  account ;  had  never  been  so  happy  as  in  hearing 
of  my  progress  ;  began  to  understand  the  mixture  of  good  and 
evil  in  the  world  now  ;  felt  that  he  appreciated  health  the  more, 
when  somebody  else  was  ill;  didn’t  know  but  what  it  might  be 
in  the  scheme  of  things  that 'A  should  squint  to  make  B  happier 
in  looking  straight ;  or  that  C  should  carry  a  wooden  leg,  to 
make  D  better  satisfied  with  his  flesh  and  blood  in  a  silk  stock¬ 
ing. 

WE  made  a  pleasant  journey  down  into  Lincolnshire  by 
the  coach,  and  had  an  entertaining  companion  in 
Mr.  Skimpole.  His  furniture  had  been  all  cleared  off,  it  ap¬ 
peared,  by  the  person  who  took  possession  of  it  on  his  blue¬ 
eyed  daughter’s  birthday  ;  but  he  seemed  quite  relieved  to 
think  that  it  was  gone.  Chairs  and  tables,  he  said,  were  weari¬ 
some  objects  ;  they  were  monotonous  ideas,  they  had  no  variety 
of  expression,  they  looked  you  out  of  countenance,  and  you 
looked  them  out  of  countenance.  How  pleasant,  then,  to  be 
bound  to  no  particular  chairs  and  tables,  but  to  sport  like  a 
butterfly  among  all  the  furniture  on  hire,  and  to  flit  from  rose¬ 
wood  to  mahogany,  and  from  mahogany  to  walnut,  and  from 
this  shape  to  that,  as  the  humor  took  one  ! 

“  The  oddity  of  the  thing  is,”  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  with  a 
quickened  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  “that  my  chairs  and  tables 
were  not  paid  for,  and  yet  my  landlord  walks  off  with  them  as 
composedly  as  possible.  Now,  that  seems  droll !  There  is 
something  grotesque  in  it.  The  chair  and  table  merchant  never 
engaged  to  pay  my  landlord  my  rent.  Why  should  my  land¬ 
lord  quarrel  with  him  ?  If  I  have  a  pimple  on  my  nose  which 
is  disagreeable  to  my  landlord’s  peculiar  ideas  of  beauty,  my 
landlord  has  no  business  to  scratch  my  chair  and  table  mer¬ 
chant’s  nose,  which  has  no  pimple  on  it.  His  reasoning  seems 
defective  !  ” 


372 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Well,”  said  my  guardian,  good-humoredly,  44  it’s  pretty  clear 
that  whoever  became  security  for  those  chairs  and  tables  will 
have  to  pay  for  them.” 

“Exactly  !”  returned  Mr.  Skimpole.  “That’s  the  crowning 
point  of  unreason  in  the  business  !  I  said  to  my  landlord,  4  My 
good  man,  you  are  not  aware  that  my  excellent  friend  Jarndyce 
will  have  to  pay  for  those  things  that  you  are  sweeping  off  in 
that  indelicate  manner.  Have  you  no  consideration  for  his 
property  ?  ’  He  hadn’t  the  least.” 

44  And  refused  all  proposals,”  said  my  guardian. 

44  Refused  all  proposals,”  returned  Mr.  Skimpole.  44 1  made 
him  business  proposals.  I  had  him  into  my  room.  I  said, 
4  You  are  a  man  of  business,  I  believe?’  He  replied,  4 1  am.’ 
‘Very  well,’  said  I,  4  now  let  us  be  business-like.  Here  is  an 
inkstand,  here  are  pens  and  paper,  here  are  wafers.  What  do 
you  want  ?  I  have  occupied  your  house  for  a  considerable 
period,  I  believe  to  our  mutual  satisfaction  until  this  unpleasant 
misunderstanding  arose  ;  let  us  be  at  once  friendly  and  business¬ 
like.  What  do  you  want  ?  ’  In  reply  to  this  he  made  use  of 
the  figurative  expression — which  has  something  Eastern  about 
it — that  he  had  never  seen  the  color  of  my  money.  4  My  ami¬ 
able  friend,’  said  I,  4  I  never  have  any  money.  I  never  know 
anything  about  money.’  ‘Well,  sir,’  said  he,  ‘what  do  you 
offer  if  I  give  you  time  ?  ’  4  My  good  fellow,’  said  I,  4 1  have 

no  idea  of  time  ;  but,  you  say  you  are  a  man  of  business,  and 
whatever  you  can  suggest  to  be  done  in  a  business-like  way 
with  pen,  and  ink,  and  paper — and  wafers — I  am  ready  to  do. 
Don’t  pay  yourself  at  another  man’s  expense  (which  is  foolish), 
but  be  business-like  !  ’  However,  he  wouldn’t  be,  and  there 
was  an  end  of  it.” 


T  T  OW  old  are  you,  Phil  ?  ”  asks  the  trooper,  pausing  as 
X  JL  he  conveys  his  smoking  saucer  to  his  lips. 

44  I’m  something  with  a  eight  in  it,”  says  Phil.  “  It  can’t  be 
eighty.  Nor  yet  eighteen.  It’s  betwixt  ’em,  somewheres.” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


373 


Mr.  George,  slowly  putting  down  his  saucer  without  tasting 
its  contents,  is  laughingly  beginning,  “  Why,  what  the  deuce, 
Phil,”' — when  he  stops,  seeing  that  Phil  is  counting  on  his  dirty 
fingers. 

“  I  was  just  eight,”  says  Phil,  “  agreeable  to  the  parish  calcu¬ 
lation,  when  I  went  with  the  tinker.  I  was  sent  on  a  errand,  and 
I  see  him  a-sittin’  under  a  old  buildin’  with  a  fire  all  to  himself 
werry  comfortable,  and  he  says,  ‘  Would  you  like  to  come  along 
a  me,  my  man  ?  ’  I  says  ‘  Yes/  and  him  and  me  and  the  fire 
goes  home  to  Clerkenwell  together.  That  was  April  Fool 
'Day.  I  was  able  to  count  up  to  ten;  and  when  April  Fool 
Day  came  round  again,  I  says  to  myself,  (  Now,  old  chap, 
you’re  one  and  a  eight  in  it.’  April  Fool  day  after  that,  I  says, 
‘  Now,  old  chap,  you’re  two  and  a  eight  in  it.’  In  course  of 
time,  I  come  to  ten  and  a  eight  in  it ;  two  tens  and  a  eight  in 
it.  When  it  got  so  high,  it  got  the  upper  hand  of  me  ;  but  this 
is  how  I  always  know  there’s  a  eight  in  it.” 

GREAT  crowd  assembles  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields  on  the 


ii  day  of  the  funeral.  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  attends  the 
ceremony  in  person  ;  strictly  speaking,  there  are  only  three  other 
human  followers,  that  is  to  say,  Lord  Doodle,  William  Puffy, 
and  the  debilitated  cousin  (thrown  in  as  a  make-weight),  but 
the  amount  of  inconsolable  carriages  is  immense.  The  Peer¬ 
age  contributes  more  four-wheeled  affliction  than  has  ever  been, 
seen  in  that  neighborhood.  Such  is  the  assemblage  of  armo¬ 
rial  bearings  on  coach-panels,  that  the  Herald’s  College  might 
be  supposed  to  have  lost  its  father  and  mother  at  a  blow.  The 
Duke  of  Foodie  sends  a  splendid  pile  of  dust  and  ashes,  with 
silver-wheel  boxes,  patent  axles,  all  the  last  improvements,  and 
three  bereaved  worms,  six  feet  high,  holding  on  behind,  in  a 
bunch  of  woe.  All  the  state  coachmen  in  London  seem 
plunged  into  mourning ;  and  if  that  dead  old  man  of  the  rusty 
garb  be  not  beyond  a  taste  in  horseflesh  (which  appears 
impossible),  it  must  be  highly  gratified  this  day. 


374 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


WHEN  we  came  home  we  found  that  a  young  man  had 
called  three  times  in  the  course  of  that  one  day,  to  see 
me  :  and  that,  having  been  told,  on  the  occasion  of  his  third 
call,  that  I  was  not  expected  to  return  before  ten  o’clock  at 
night,  he  had  left  word,  “  that  he  would  call  about  then.”  He 
had  left  his  card  three  times.  Mr.  Guppy. 

As  I  naturally  speculated  on  the  object  of  these  visits,  and  as 
I  always  associated  something  ludicrous  with  the  visitor,  it  fell 
out  that  in  laughing  about  Mr.  Guppy  I  told  my  guardian  of  his 
old  proposal,  and  his  subsequent  retractation.  “  After  that,” 
said  my  guardian,  “  we  will  certainly  receive  this  hero.”  So, 
instructions  were  given  that  Mr.  Guppy  should  be  shown  in, 
when  he  came  again ;  and  they  were  scarcely  given  when  he 
did  come  again. 

He  was  embarrassed  when  he  found  my  guardian  with  me, 
but  recovered  himself,  and  said,  <£  How  de  do,  sir?” 

“  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  ”  returned  my  guardian. 

£t  Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  tolerable,”  returned  Mr.  Guppy. 
“  Will  you  allow  me  to  introduce  my  mother,  Mrs.  Guppy  of 
the  Old  Street  Road,  and  my  particular  friend,  Mr.  Weevle. 
That  is  to  say,  my  friend  has  gone  by  the  name  of  Weevle,  but 
his  name  is  really  and  truly  Jobling.” 

My  guardian  begged  them  to  be  seated,  and  they  all  sat 
down. 

“Tony,”  said  Mr.  Guppy  to  his  friend,  after -an  awkward 
silence.  “  Will  you  open  the  case  ?  ” 

“  Do  it  yourself,”  returned  the  friend,  rather  tartly. 

“Well,  Mr.  Jarndyce,  sir,”  Mr.  Guppy,  after  a  moment’s 
consideration,  began  :  to  the  great  diversion  of  his  mother, 
which  she  displayed  by  nudging  Mr.  Jobling  with  her  elbow, 
and  winking  at  me  in  a  most  remarkable  manner  ;  “I  had  an 
idea  that  I  should  see  Miss  Summerson  by  herself,  and  was  not 
quite  prepared  for  your  esteemed  presence.  But  Miss  Sum¬ 
merson  has  mentioned  to  you,  perhaps,  that  something  has 
passed  between  us  on  former  occasions  ?  ” 


PROMISCUOUS. 


375 


“  Miss  Summerson,”  returned  my  guardian  smiling,  “  has 
made  a  communication  to  that  effect  to  me.” 

“That,”  said  Mr.  Guppy,  “makes  matters  easier.  Sir,  I 
have  come  out  of  my  articles  at  Kenge  and  Carboy’s,  and  I 
believe  with  satisfaction  to  all  parties.  I  am  now  admitted 
(after  undergoing  an  examination  that’s  enough  to  badger  a 
man  blue,  touching  a  pack  of  nonsense  that  he  don’t  want  to 
know)  on  the  roll  of  attorneys,  and  have  taken  out  my  certifi¬ 
cate,  if  it  would  be  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  see  it.” 

“  Thank  you,  Mr.  Guppy,”  returned  my  guardian.  “  I  am 
quite  willing — I  believe  I  use  a  legal  phrase — to  admit  the 
certificate.” 

Mr.  Guppy  therefore  desisted  from  taking  something  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  proceeded  without  it. 

“  I  have  no  capital  myself,  but  my  mother  has  a  little  prop¬ 
erty  which  takes  the  form  of  an  annuity  ;  ”  here  Mr.  Guppy’s 
mother  rolled  her  head  as  if  she  never  could  sufficiently  enjoy 
the  observation,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth,  and 
again  winked  at  me ;  “  and  a  few  pounds  for  expenses  out  of 
pocket  in  conducting  business,  will  never  be  wanting,  free  of 
interest,  which  is  an  advantage,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Guppy, 
feelingly. 

“Certainly  an  advantage,”  returned  my  guardian. 

“  I  have  some  connection,”  pursued  Mr.  Guppy,  “  and  it  lays 
in  the  direction  of  Walcot  Square,  Lambeth.  I  have  there¬ 
fore  taken  a  ouse  in  that  locality,  which,  in  the  opinion  of  my 
friends,  is  a  hcllow  bargain  (taxes  ridiculous,  and  use  of  fixtures 
included  in  the  rent)  and  intend  setting  up  professionally  for 
myself  there,  forthwith.” 

Here  Mr.  Guppy’s  mother  fell  into  an  extraordinary  passion 
of  rolling  her  head,  and  smiling  waggishly  at  anybody  who 
would  look  at  her. 

“It’s  a  six-roomer,  exclusive  of  kitchen,”  said  Mr.  Guppy, 
“and  in  the  opinion  of  my  friends,  a  commodious  tenement. 
When  I  mention  my  friends,  I  refer  principally  to  my  friend 


3  76 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Jobling,  who  I  believe  has  known  me,”  Mr.  Guppy  looked  at 
him  with  a  sentimental  air,  “  from  boyhood’s  hour  ?  ” 

Mr.  Jobling  confirmed  this  with  a  sliding  movement  of  his 
legs. 

“My  friend  Jobling  will  render  me  his  assistance  in  'the 
capacity  of  clerk,  and  will  live  in  the  ouse,”  said  Mr.  Guppy. 
“  My  mother  will  likewise  live  in  the  ouse,  when  her  present 
quarter  in  the  Old  Street  Road  shall  have  ceased  and  expired  ; 
and  consequently  there  will  be  no  want  of  society.  My  friend 
Jobling  is  naturally  aristocratic  by  taste  ;  and  besides  being 
acquainted  with  the  movements  of  the  upper  circles,  fully  backs 
me  in  the  intentions  I  am  now  developing.” 

Mr.  Jobling  said  “certainly,”  and  withdrew  a  little  from  the 
elbow  of  Mr.  Guppy’s  mother. 

“Now,  I  have  no  occasion  to  mention  to  you,  sir,  you  being 
in  the  confidence  of  Miss  Summerson,”  said  Mr.  Guppy, 
“  (mother,  I  wish  you’d  be  so  good  as  to  keep  still),  that  Miss 
Summerson’ s  image  was  formerly  imprinted  on  my  art,  and  that 
I  made  her  a  proposal  of  marriage.” 

“That  I  have  heard,”  returned  my  guardian. 

“Circumstances,”  pursued  Mr.  Guppy,  “over  which  I  had 
no  control  but  quite  the  contrary,  weakened  the  impression  of 
that  image  for  a  time.  At  which  time  Miss  Summerson’s  con¬ 
duct  was  highly  genteel ;  I  may  even  add,  magnanimous.” 

My  guardian  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  seemed  much 
amused. 

“  Now,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Guppy,  “  I  have  got  into  that  state  of 
mind  myself,  that  I  wish  for  a  reciprocity  of  magnanimous  be¬ 
havior.  I  wish  to  prove  to  Miss  Summerson  that  I  can  rise  to 
a  heighth,  of  which  perhaps  she  hardly  thought  me  capable.  I 
find  that  the  image  which  I  did  suppose  had  been  eradicated 
from  my  art,  is  not  eradicated.  Its  influence  over  me  is  still 
tremenjous;  and  yielding  to  it  I  am  willing  to  overlook  the 
circumstances  over  which  none  of  us  have  had  any  control,  and 
to  renew  those  proposals  to  Miss  Summerson  which  I  had  the 
honor  to  make  at  a  former  period.  I  beg  to  lay  the  ouse  in 


PROMISCUOUS. 


377 


Walcot  Square,  the  business,  and  myself,  before  Miss  Summer- 
son  for  her  acceptance.” 

“Very  magnanimous  indeed,  sir,”  observed  my  guardian. 

“Well,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Guppy,  with  candor,  “my  wish  is  to 
be  magnanimous.  I  do  not  consider  that  in  making  this  offer 
to  Miss  Summerson  I  am  by  any  means  throwing  myself  away  ; 
neither  is  that  the  opinion  of  my  friends.  Still,  there  are  cir¬ 
cumstances  which  I  submit  may  be  taken  into  account  as  a  set¬ 
off  against  any  little  drawbacks  of  mine,  and  so  a  fair  and  equi¬ 
table  balance  arrived  at.” 

“  I  take  upon  myself,  sir,”  said  my  guardian  laughing  as  he 
rang  the  bell,  “  to  reply  to  your  proposals  on  behalf  of  Miss 
Summerson.  She  is  very  sensible  of  your  handsome  intentions, 
and  wishes  you  good-evening,  and  wishes  you  well.” 

“  Oh  !  ”  said  Mr.  Guppy  with  a  blank  look.  “  Is  that  tanta¬ 
mount,  sir,  to  acceptance,  or  rejection,  or  consideration  ?” 

“To  decided  rejection,  if  you  please?”  returned  my  guar¬ 
dian. 

Mr.  Guppy  looked  incredulously  at  his  friend,  and  at  his 
mother  who  suddenly  turned  very  angry,  and  at  the  floor,  and 
at  the  ceiling. 

“  Indeed  ?”  said  he.  “Then  Jobling,  if  you  was  the  friend 
you  represent  yourself,  I  should  think  you  might  hand  my 
mother  out  of  the  gangway,  instead  of  allowing  her  to  remain 
where  she  ain’t  wanted.” 

But  Mrs.  Guppy  positively  refused  to  come  out  of  the  gang¬ 
way.  She  wouldn’t  hear  of  it.  “Why,  get  along  with  you,” 
said  she  to  my  guardian,  “  what  do  you  mean  ?  Ain’t  my  son 
good  enough  for  you  ?  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
Get  out  with  you  !  ” 

“My  good  lady!”  returned  my  guardian,  “it  is  hardly 
reasonable  to  ask  me  to  get  out  of  my  own  room.” 

‘c  I  don’t  care  for  that,”  said  Mrs.  Guppy.  “Get  out  with 
you.  If  we  ain’t  good  enough  for  you,  go  and  procure  some¬ 
body  that  is  good  enough.  Go  along  and  find  ’em.” 

I  was  quite  unprepared  for  the  rapid  manner  in  which  Mrs. 


378 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Guppy’s  power  of  jocularity  merged  into  a  power  of  taking  the 
profoundest  offence. 

“  Go  along  and  find  somebody  that’s  good  enough  for  you,” 
repeated  Mrs.  Guppy.  “  Get  out!”  Nothing  seemed  to  as¬ 
tonish  Mr.  Guppy’s  mother  so  much,  and  to  make  her  so  very 
indignant,  as  our  not  getting  out.  “  Why  don’t  you  get  out  ?  ” 
said  Mrs.  Guppy.  “’What  are  you  stopping  here  for  ?  ” 

“  Mother,”  interposed  her  son,  always  getting  before  her,  and 
pushing  her  back  with  one  shoulder,  as  she  sidled  at  my  guar¬ 
dian,  “  will  you  hold  your  tongue  ?  ” 

“  No,  William,”  she  returned  ;  “  I  won’t  !  Not  unless  he  gets 
out,  I  won’t !:” 

However,  Mr.  Guppy  and  Mr.  Jobling  together  closed  on 
Mr.  Guppy’s  mother  (who  began  to  be  quite  abusive),  and  took 
her,  very  much  against  her  will,  downstairs ;  her  voice  rising  a 
stair  higher  every  time  her  figure  got  a  stair  lower,  and  insisting 
that  we  should  immediately  go  and  find  somebody  who  was  good 
enough  for  us,  and  above  all  things  that  we  should  get  out. 


FROM  OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 


u \T  OW,  look  here.  I’m  xetired  from  business.  Me  and 
N  Mrs.  Boffin — Henerietty  Boffin — which  her  father’s 
name  was  Henery,  and  her  mother’s  name  was  Hetty,  and  so 
you  get  it — we  live  on  a  compittance,  under  the  will  of  a  dis¬ 
eased  governor.” 

“  Gentleman  dead,  sir  ?  ” 

“Man  alive,  don’t  I  tell  you ?  A  diseased  governor  ?  Now, 
it’s  too  late  for  me  to  begin  shovelling  and  sifting  at  alphabeds 
and  grammar-books.  I’m  getting  to  be  a  old  bird,  and  I  want 
to  take  it  easy.  But  I  want  some  reading — some  fine  bold 
reading,  some  splendid  book  in  a  gorging  Lord  Mayor’ s-Show 
of  wollumes”  (probably  meaning  gorgeous,  but  misled  by  as- 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3  79 


sociation  of  ideas) ;  “  as’ 11  reach  right  down  your  pint  of  view, 
and  take  time  to  go  by  you.  How  can  I  get  that  reading, 
Wegg?  By,”  tapping  him  on  the  breast  with  the  head  of  his 
stick,  “paying  a  man  truly  qualified  to  do  it,  so  much  an  hour 
(say  twopence)  to  come  and  do  it.” 

“Hem  !  Flattered,  sir,  I  am  sure,”  said  Wegg,  beginning  to 
regard  himself  quite  in  a  new  light.  “  Hem  !  This  is  the  offer 
you  mentioned,  sir?” 

“  Yes.  Do  you  like  it  ?  ” 

“  I  am  considering  of  it,  Mr.  Boffin.” 

“I  don’t,”  said  Boffin,  in  a  free-handed  manner,  “want  to 
tie  a  literary  man — with  a  wooden  leg-down  too  tight.  A 
halfpenny  an  hour  shan’t  part  us.  The  hours  are  your  own  to 
choose,  after  #you’ve  done  for  the  day  with  your  house  here.  I 
live  over  Maiden  Lane  way — out  Holloway  direction — and 
you’ve  only  got  to  go  East-and-by-North  when  you’ve  finished 
here,  and  you’re  there.  Twopence-halfpenny  an  hour,”  said 
Boffin,  taking  a  piece  of  chalk  from  his  pocket  and  getting  off 
the  stool  to  work  the  sum  on  the  top  of  it  in  his  own  way ; 
“  two  long’uns  and  a  short’ un — twopence-halfpenny  ;  two 
short’uns  is  a  long’un  and  two  two  long’uns  is  four  long’uns — 
making  five  long’uns  ;  six  nights  a  week  at  five  long’uns  a  night,” 
scoring  them  all  down  separately,  “and you  mount  up  to  thirty 
long’uns.  A  round’ un  !  Half-a-crown !  ” 

Pointing  to  this  result  as  a  large  and  satisfactory  one,  Mr. 
Boffin  smeared  it  out  with  his  moistened  glove,  and  sat  down 
on  the  remains. 

“Half-a-crown,”  said  Wegg,  meditating.  “Yes.  (It  ain’t 
much,  sir.)  Half-a-crown.” 

“  Per  week,  you  know.” 

“  Per  week.  Yes.  As  to  the  amount  of  strain  upon  the  in¬ 
tellect  now.  Was  you  thinking  at  all  of  poetry?”  Mr.  Wegg 
inquired,  musing. 

“Would  it  come  dearer?”  Mr.  Boffin  asked. 

“  It  would  come  dearer,”  Mr.  Wegg  returned.  “  For  when 
a  person  comes  to  grind  off  poetry  night  after  night,  it  is  but 


380 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


right  he  should  expect  to  be  paid  for  its  weakening  effect  on  his 
mind.” 

“To  tell  you  the  truth,  Wegg,”  said  Boffin,  “  I  wasn’t  think¬ 
ing  of  poetry,  except  in  so  far  as  this  : — If  you  was  to  happen 
now  and  then  to  feel  yourself  in  the  mind  to  tip  me  and  Mrs. 
Boffin  one  of  your  ballads,  why  then  we  should  drop  into 
poetry.” 

“  I  follow  you,  sir,”  said  Wegg.  “  But  not  being  a  regular 
musical  professional,  I  should  be  loath  to  engage  myself  for  that ; 
and  therefore  when  I  dropped  into  poetry,  I  should  ask  to  be 
considered  so  fur,  in  the  light  of  a  friend.” 

At  this,  Mr.  Boffin’s  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  shook  Silas  ear¬ 
nestly  by  the  hand,  protesting  that  it  was  more  than  he  could 
have  asked,  and  that  he  took  it  very  kindly  indeed.” 

“What  do  you  think  of  the  terms,  Wegg?”  Mr.  Boffin  then 
demanded,  with  unconcealed  anxiety. 

Silas,  who  had  stimulated  this  anxiety  by  his  hard  reserve  of 
manner,  and  who  had  begun  to  understand  his  man  very  well, 
replied  with  an  air ;  as  if  he  was  saying  something  extraordi¬ 
narily  generous  and  great : 

“Mr.  Boffin,  I  never  bargain.” 

“So  I  should  have  thought  of  you  !  ”  said  Mr.  Boffin  ad¬ 
miringly. 

“  No,  sir.  I  never  did  ’aggie  and  I  never  will  'aggie.  Con¬ 
sequently  I  meet  you  at  once,  free  and  fair,  with - Done,  for 

double  the  money  !  ’ 

Mr.  Boffin  seemed  a  little  unprepared  for  this  conclusion,  but 
assented,  with  the  remark,  “  You  know  better  what  it  ought  to 
be  than  I  do,  Wegg,”  and  again  shook  hands  with  him  upon  it. 

“  Could  you  begin  to-night,  Wegg?  ”  he  then  demanded. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  Mr.  W egg,  careful  to  leave  all  the  eager¬ 
ness  to  him.  “  I  see  no  difficulty  if  you  wish  it.  You  are  pro¬ 
vided  with  the  needful  implement — a  book,  sir  ?  ” 

“Bought  him  at  a  sale,”  said  Mr.  Boffin.  “  Eight wollumes. 
Red  and  gold.  Purple  ribbon  in  every  wollume,  to  keep  the 
place  where  you  leave  off.  Do  you  know  him  ?  ” 


PROMISCUOUS . 


3Sl 


“  The  book’s  name,  sir  ?”  inquired  Silas. 

“  I  thought  you  might  have  know’d  him  without  it,”  said  Mr. 
Boffin,  slightly  disappointed.  His  name  is  Decline-And-Fall- 
Off-The-Rooshan-Empire.”  (Mr.  Boffin  went  over  these  stones 
slowly  and  with  much  caution.) 

“  Ay,  indeed  !  ”  said  Mr.  Wegg,  nodding  his  head  with  an  air 
of  friendly  recognition. 

“  You  know  him,  Wegg?” 

“  I  haven’t  been  not  to  say  right  slap  through  him,  very  lately,” 
Mr.  Wegg  made  answer,  “  having  been  otherways  employed, 
Mr.  Boffin.  But  know  him  ?  Old  familiar  declining  and  fall¬ 
ing  off  the  Rooshan  !  Rather,  sir  !  Ever  since  I  was  not  so 
high  as  your  stick.  Ever  since  my  eldest  brother  left  our  cot¬ 
tage  to  enlist  into  the  army.  On  which  occasion,  as  the  ballad 
that  was  made  about  it  describes : 


“  Beside  that  cottage  door,  Mr.  Boffin, 

A  girl  was  on  her  knees  ; 

She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf,  sir. 

Which  (my  eldest  brother  noticed)  fluttered  in  the  breeze. 
She  breathed  a  prayer  for  him,  Mr.  Boffin  ; 

A  prayer  he  could  not  hear. 

And  my  eldest  brother  lean’d  upon  his  sword,  Mr.  Boffin, 
And  wiped  away  a  tear.” 


Much  impressed  by  this  family  circumstance,  and  also  by 
the  friendly  disposition  of  Mr.  Wegg,  as  exemplified  in  his  so 
soon  dropping  into  poetry,  Mr.  Boffin  again  shook  hands  with 
that  ligneous  sharper,  and  besought  him  to  name  his  hour.  Mr. 
Wegg  named  eight. 

AND  now,  Mr.  Wegg  at  length  pushed  away  his  plate  and 
put  on  his  spectacles,  and  Mr.  Boffin  lighted  his  pipe  and 
looked  with  beaming  eyes  into  the  opening  world  before  him, 
and  Mrs.  Boffin  reclined  in  a  fashionable  manner  on  her  sofa: 
as  one  who  would  be  part  of  the  audience  if  she  found  she 
could,  and  would  go  to  sleep  if  she  found  she  couldn’t. 


3S2 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“Hem  !”  began  Wegg,  “This,  Mr.  Boffin  and  Lady,  is  the 
first  chapter  of  the  first  wollume  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  off — ■” 
here  he  looked  hard  at  the  book,  and  stopped. 

“What’s  the  matter,  Wegg?” 

“  Why  it  comes  into  my  mind,  do  you  know  sir,”  said  Wegg, 
with  an  air  of  insinuating  frankness  (having  first  again  looked 
hard  at  the  book),  “that  you  made  a  little  mistake  this  morning, 
which  I  had  meant  to  set  you  right  in,  only  something  put  it 
out  of  my  head.  I  think  you  said  Rooshan  Empire,  sir  ?  ” 

“  It  is  Rooshan  ;  ain’t  it,  Wegg  ?  ” 

“  No,  sir.  Roman.  Roman.” 

“What’s. the  difference,  Wegg?” 

“The  difference,  sir?”  Mr.  Wegg  was  faltering  and  in  dan¬ 
ger  of  breaking  down,  when  a  bright  thought  flashed  upon  him. 
“  The  difference,  sir  ?  There  you  place  me  in  a  difficulty,  Mr. 
Boffin.  Suffice  it  to  observe,  that  the  difference  is  best  post¬ 
poned  to  some  other  occasion  when  Mrs.  Boffin  does  not  honor 
us  with  her  company.  In  Mrs.  Boffin’s  presence,  sir,  we  had 
better  drop  it.” 

Mr.  Wegg  thus  came  out  of  his  disadvantage  with  quite  a 
chivalrous  air,  and  not  only  that,  but  by  dint  of  repeating  with 
a  manly  delicacy,  “  In  Mrs.  Boffin’s  presence,  sir,  we  had  bet¬ 
ter  drop  it  !  ”  turned  the  disadvantage  on  Boffin,  who  felt  that 
he  had  committed  himself  in  a  very  painful  manner. 

Then  Mr.  Wegg,  in  a  dry,  unflinching  way,  entered  on  his 
task ;  going  straight  across  country  at  everything  that  came 
before  him  ;  taking  all  the  hard  words,  biographical  and  geogra¬ 
phical  ;  getting  rather  shaken  by  Hadrian,  Trajan,  and  the  An- 
tonines;  stumbling  at  Polybius  (pronounced  Polly  Beeious,  and 
supposed  by  Mr.  Boffin  to  be  a  Roman  virgin,  and  by  Mrs. 
Boffin  to  be  responsible  for  that  necessity  of  dropping  it)  ; 
heavily  unseated  by  Titus  Antoninus  Pius ;  up  again  and  gal¬ 
loping  smoothly  with  Augustus  ;  finally,  getting  over  the  ground 
well  with  Commodus,  who,  under  the  appellation  of  Commo¬ 
dious,  was  held  by  Mr.  Boffin  to  have  been  quite  unworthy  of 
his  English  origin,  and  “not  to  have  acted  up  to  his  name  ”  in 


PROMISCUOUS. 


383 


his  government  of  the  Roman  people.  With  the  death  of  this 
personage,  Mr.  Wegg  terminated  his  first  reading ;  long  be¬ 
fore  which  consummation  several  total  eclipses  of  Mrs.  Boffin’s 
candle  behind  her  black-velvet  disc  would  have  been  very 
alarming,  but  for  being  regularly  accompanied  by  a  potent  smell 
of  burnt  pens  when  her  feathers  took  lire,  which  acted  as  a  re¬ 
storative  and  woke  her.  Mr.  Wegg,  having  read  on  by  rote  and 
attached  as  few  ideas  as  possible  to  the  text,  came  out  of  the 
encounter  fresh  ;  but  Mr.  Boffin,  who  had  soon  laid  down  his 
unfinished  pipe,  and  had  ever  since  sat  intently  staring  with  his 
eyes  and  mind  at  the  confounding  enormities  of  the  Romans, 
was  so  severely  punished  that  he  could  hardly  wish  his  literary 
friend  Good-night,  and  articulate  “  To-morrow.” 

“  Commodious,”  gasped  Mr.  Boffin,  staring  at  the  moon, 
after  letting  Wegg  out  at  the  gate,  and  fastening  it  :  “  Com- 
modius  fights  in  that  wild-beast  show,  seven  hundred  and 
thirty-five  times  in  one  character  only  !  As  if  that  wasn’t 
stunning  enough,  a  hundred  lions  is  turned  into  the  same 
wild-beast  show  all  at  once  !  As  if  that  wasn’t  stunning 
enough,  Commodious,  in  another  character,  kills  ’em  all  off  in 
a  hundred  goes  !  As  if  that  wasn’t  stunning  enough,  Vittle- 
us  (and  well  named,  too)  eats  six  millions’  worth  English 
money  in  seven  months  !  Wegg  takes  it  easy,  but  upon  my 
soul,  to  a  old  bird  like  myself,  these  are  scarers.  And  Sven 
now  that  Commodious  is  strangled,  I  don’t  see  a  way  to  our 
bettering  ourselves.”  Mr.  Boffin  added,  as  he  turned  his  pen¬ 
sive  steps  toward  the  bower,  and  shook  his  head,  u  I  didn’t 
think  this  morning  there  was  half  so  many  Scarers  in  Print. 
But  I’m  in  for  it  now!” 

R.  and  Mrs.  Lammle  have  walked  for  some  time  on 


JLVX  the  Shanklin  sands,  and  one  may  see  by  their  foot¬ 
prints  that  they  have  not  walked  arm-in-arm,  and  that  they 
have  not  walked  in  a  straight  track,  and  that  they  have  walked 
in  a  moody  humor  ;  for  the  lady  has  prodded  little  spirting 
holes  in  the  damp  sand  before  her  with  her  parasol,  and  the 


38  4 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


gentleman  has  trailed  his  stick  after  him.  As  if  he  were  of 
the  Mephistopheles  family  indeed,  and  had  walked  with  a 
drooping  tail. 

“  Do  yon  mean  to  tell  me,  then,  Sophronia — ” 

Thus  he  begins,  after  a  long  silence,  when  Sophronia  flashes 
fiercely,  and  turns  upon  him. 

“  Don’t  put  it  upon  me^  sir.  I  ask  you,  do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  ?  ” 

Mr.  Lammle  falls  silent  again,  and  they  walk  as  before. 
Mrs.  Lammle  opens  her  nostrils,  and  bites  her  under-lip ;  Mr. 
Lammle  takes  his  gingerous  whiskers  in  his  left  hand,  and, 
bringing  them  together,  frowns  furtively  at  his  beloved,  out  of 
a  thick  gingerous  bush. 

“  Do  I  mean  to  say  !  ”  Mrs.  Lammle  after  a  time  repeats, 
with  indignation.  ££  Putting  it  on  me  !  The  unmanly  disin¬ 
genuousness  !  ” 

Mr.  Lammle  stops,  releases  his  whiskers,  and  looks  at  her. 
££  The  what  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Lammle  haughtily  replies,  without  stopping,  and  with¬ 
out  looking  back.  ££  The  meanness.” 

Lie  is  at  her  side  again  in  a  pace  or  two,  and  he  retorts : 
“  That  is  not  what  you  said.  You  said  disingenuousness.” 

“  What  if  I  did  ?  ” 

“ Where  is  no  £  if’  in  the  case.  You  did.” 

a  I  did,  then.  And  what  of  it  ?  ” 

“  What  of  it?”  says  Mr.  L.animle.  ££  Have  you  the  face 
to  utter  the  word  to  me  ?  ” 

“  The  face,  too  !  ”  replied  Mrs.  Lammle,  staring  at  him 
with  cold  scorn.  ££  Pray,  how  dare  you,  sir,  utter  the  word 
to  me  ?  ” 

££  I  never  did.” 

As  this  happens  to  be  true,  Mrs.  Lammle  is  thrown  on  the 
feminine  resource  of  saying,  “I  don’t  care  what  you  uttered 
or  did  not  utter.” 

After  a  little  more  walking  and  a  little  more  silence,  Mr. 
Lammle  breaks  the  latter. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


385 


“You  shall  proceed  in  your  own  way.  You  claim  a  right  to 
ask  me  do  I  mean  to  tell  you.  Do  I  mean  to  tell  you  what?” 

“  That  you  are  a  man  of  property  ?  ” 

“No.” 

“  Then  you  married  me  on  false  pretences  ?  ” 

“So  be  it.  Next  conies  what  you  mean  to  say.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  are  a  woman  of  property  ?  ” 

“  No.” 

“  Then  you  married  me  on  false  pretences.” 

“  If  you  were  so  dull  a  fortune-hunter  that  you  deceived 
yourself,  or  if  you  were  so  greedy  and  grasping  that  you  were 
overwriting  to  be  deceived  by  appearances,  is  it  my  fault,  you 
adventurer  ?  ’’  the  lady  demands  with  great  asperity. 

“  I  asked  Veneering,  and  he  told  me  you  were  rich.” 

“Veneering!”  with  great  contempt.  “And  what  does 
Veneering  know  about  me  !  ” 

“  Was  he  not  your  trustee  ?  ” 

“  No.  I  have  no  trustee,  but  the  one  you  saw  on  the  day 
when  you  fraudulently  married  me.  And  his  trust  is  not  a  very 
difficult  one,  for  it  is  only  an  annuity  of  a  hundred  and  fifteen 
pounds.  I  think  there  are  some  odd  shillings  or  pence,  if  you 
are  very  particular.” 

Mr.  Lammle  bestows  a  by  no  means  loving  look  upon  the 
partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows,  and  he  mutters  something,  but 
checks  himself. 

“  Question  for  question.  It  is  my  turn  again,  Mrs.  Lammle. 
What  made  you  suppose  me  a  man  of  property  ?  ” 

“  You  made  me  suppose  you  so.  Perhaps  you  will  deny 
that  you  always  presented  yourself  to  me  in  that  character  ?  ” 

“But  you  asked  somebody,  too.  Come,  Mrs.  Lammle, 
admission  for  admission.  You  asked  somebody?” 

“  I  asked  Veneering.” 

“And  Veneering  knew  as  much  of  me  as  he  knew  of  you, 
or  as  anybody  knows  of  him.” 

After  more  silent  walking,  the  bride  stops  short,  to  say  in  a 
passionate  manner : 

17  ' 


386 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  I  never  will  forgive  the  Veneerings  for  this  !  ” 

“  Neither  will  I,”  returns  the  bridegroom. 

With  that  they  walk  again ;  she  making  those  angry  spirts 
in  the  sand,  he  dragging  that  dejected  tail.  The  tide  is  low, 
and  seems  to  have  thrown  them  together  high  on  the  bare 
shore.  A  gull  comes  sweeping  by  their  heads,  and  flouts 
them.  There  was  a  golden  surface  on  the  brown  cliffs  but 
now,  and  behold  they  are  only  damp  earth.  A  taunting  roar 
comes  from  the  sea,  and  the  far-out  rollers  mount  upon  one 
another,  to  look  at  the  entrapped  impostors,  and  to  join  in 
impish  and  exultant  gambols. 

u  Do  you  pretend  to  believe,”  Mrs.  Lammle  resumes, 
sternly,  “  when  you  talk  of  my  marrying  you  for  worldly  ad¬ 
vantages,  that  it  was  within  the  bounds  of  reasonable  proba¬ 
bility  that  I  would  have  married  you  for  yourself?  ” 

“  Again  there  are  two  sides  to  the  question,  Mrs.  Lammle. 
What  do  you  pretend  to  believe  ?  ” 

“So  you  first  deceive  me  and  then  insult  me!”  cries  the 
lady,  with  a  heaving  bosom. 

“  Not  at  all.  I  have  originated  nothing.  The  double- 
edged  question  was  yours.” 

“  Was  mine  !  ”  the  bride  repeats,  and  her  parasol  breaks  in 
her  angry  hand. 

His  color  has  turned  to  a  livid  white,  and  ominous  marks 
have  come  to  light  about  his  nose,  as  if  the  finger  of  the  very 
devil  himself  had,  within  the  last  few  moments,  touched  it  here 
and  there.  But  he  has  repressive  power,  and  she  has  none. 

(C  Throw  it  away,”  he  coolly  recommends  as  to  the  parasol ; 
“  you  have  made  it  useless  ;  you  look  ridiculous  with  it.” 

Whereupon  she  calls  him  in  her  rage,  “  A  deliberate  vil¬ 
lain,”  and  so  casts  the  broken  thing  from  her  as  that  it  strikes 
him  in  falling.  The  finger-marks  are  something  whiter  for  the 
instant,  but  he  walks  on  at  her  side. 

She  burst  into  tears,  declaring  herself  the  wretchedest,  the 
most  deceived,  the  worst-used,  of  women.  Then  she  says  that 
if  she  had  the  courage  to  kill  herself,  she  would  do  it.  Then 


PROMISCUOUS. 


387 


* 


she  calls  him  vile  impostor.  Then  she  asks  him,  why,  in  the 
disappointment  of  his  base  speculation,  he  does  not  take  her 
life  with  his  own  hand,  under  the  present  favorable  circum¬ 
stances.  Then  she  cries  again.  Then  she  is  enraged  again, 
and  makes  some  mention  of  swindlers.  Finally,  she  sits  down 
crying  on  a  block  of  stone,  and  is  in  all  the  known  and  un¬ 
known  humors  of  her  sex  at  once.  Pending  her  changes,  those 
aforesaid  marks  in  his  face  have  come  and  gone,  now  here 
now  there,  like  white  stops  of  a  pipe  on  which  the  diabolical 
performer  has  played  a  tune.  Also  his  livid  lips  are  parted 
at  last,  as  if  he  were  breathless  with  running.  Yet  he  is  not. 

U\I  T HAT  can  a  woman  at  my  age  do  ?  My  husband  and 
V  V  I  deceived  one  another  when  we  married  ;  we  must 
bear  the  consequences  of  the  deception— that  is  to  say,  beai 
one  another,  and  bear  the  burden  of  scheming  together  for  to¬ 
day’s  dinner  and  to-morrow’s  breakfast — till  death  divorces  us.” 

FOR  it  is  not,  in  Christian  countries,  with  the  Jews  as  with 
other  peoples.  Men  say,  u  This  is  a  bad  Greek,  but 
there  are  good  Greeks.  This  is  a  bad  Turk,  but  there  are 
good  Turks.”  Not  so  with  the  Jews.  Men  fipd  the  bad 
among  us  easily  enough — among  what  peoples  are  the  bad  not 
easily  found  ? — but  they  take  the  worst  of  us  as  samples  of  the 
best ;  they  take  the  lowest  of  us  as  presentations  of  the  high¬ 
est;  and  they  say  £C  All  Jews  are  alike.”  If,  doing  what  I  was 
content  to  do  here,  because  I  was  grateful  for  the  past,  and 
have  small  need  of  money  now,  I  have  been  a  Christian,  I 
could  have  done  it,  compromising  no  one  but  my  individual 
self.  But  doing  it  as  a  Jew,  I  could  not  choose  but  compro¬ 
mise  the  Jews  of  all  conditions  and  all  countries.  It  is  a  little 
hard  upon  us,  but  it  is  the  truth. 

IT  OWEVER,  when  dinner  is  served,  and  Lightwood  drops 
ji  into  his  old  place  over  against  Lady  Tippins,  she  can 
be  fended  off  no  longer.  “  Long-banished  Robinson  Crusoe,” 


388 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


says  the  charmer,  exchanging  salutations,  “  how  did  you  leave 
the  Island?” 

“Thank  you,”  says  Lightwood.  “It  made  no  complaint  of 
being  in  pain  anywhere.” 

“Say,  how  did  you  leave  the  savages?  ”  asks  Lady  Tippins. 

“They  were  becoming  civilized  when  I  left  Juan  Fernan¬ 
dez,”  says  Lightwood ;  “  at  least  they  were  eating  one  another, 
which  looked  like  it.” 

“Tormentor!”  returns  the  dear  young  creature.  “You 
know  what  I  mean,  and  you  trifle  with  my  impatience.  Tell 
me  something,  immediately,  about  the  married  pair.  You 
were  at  the  wedding.” 

“  Was  I,  by  the  bye  ?  ”  Mortimer  pretends,  at  great  leisure, 
to  consider.  “  So  I  was  !  ” 

“  How  was  the  bride  dressed  ?  In  rowing  costume  ?  ” 

Mortimer  looks  gloomy,  and  declines  to  answer. 

“  I  hope  she  steered  herself,  skiffed  herself,  paddled  herself, 
larboarded  and  starboarded  herself,  or  whatever  the  technical 
term  may  be,  to  the  ceremony?”  proceeds  the  playful  Tippins. 

“  However  she  got  to  it,  she  graced  it,”  says  Mortimer. 

Lady  Tippins  with  a  skittish  little  scream,  attracts  the  gene¬ 
ral  attention.  “  Graced  it !  Take  care  of  me  if  I  faint,  Ve¬ 
neering.  He  means  to  tell  us,  that  a  horrid  female  waterman 
is  graceful !  ” 

“  Pardon  me.  I  mean  to  tell  you  nothing,  Lady  Tippins,” 
replies  Lightwood.  And  keeps  his  word  by  eating  his  dinner 
with  a  show  of  the  utmost  indifference. 


N  the  grateful  impulse  of  the  moment,  Mr.  Sloppy  kissed 


Mrs.  Boffin’s  hand,  and  then  detaching  himself  from  that 
good  creature  that  he  might  have  room  enough  for  his  feelings, 
threw  back  his  head,  opened  his  mouth  wide,  and  uttered  a 
dismal  howl.  It  was  creditable  to  his  tenderness  of  heart,  but 
suggested  that  he  might  on  occasion  give  some  offence  to  the 
neighbors ;  the  rather,  as  the  footman  looked  in,  and  begged 


PROMISCUOUS. 


389 


pardon,  finding  he  was  not  wanted,  but  excused  himself,  on 
the  ground  “  that  he  thought  it  was  Cats.” 


H 


OW  the  fascinating  Tippins  gets  on  when  arraying  her¬ 
self  for  the  bewilderment  of  the  senses  of  men,  is  known 
only  to  the  Graces  and  her  maid ;  but  perhaps  eVen  that  en¬ 
gaging  creature,  though  not  reduced  to  the  self  dependence  of 
Twemlow,  could  dispense  with  a  good  deal  of  the  trouble  at¬ 
tendant  on  the  daily  restoration  of  her  charms,  seeing  that  as 
to  her  face  and  neck  this  adorable  divinity  is,  as  it  were,  a  di¬ 
urnal  species  of  lobster — throwing  off  a  shell  every  forenoon, 
and  needing  to  keep  in  a  retired  spot  until  the  new  crust 
hardens. 


T  COULD  not  have  done  it  all,  or  nearly  all,  of  myself,” 

JL  said  Lizzie.  “  I  should  not  have  wanted  the  will ;  but  I 
should  not  have  had  the  power,  without  our  managing  part¬ 
ner.” 

“  Surely  not  the  Jew  who  received  us  ?  ”  said  Mrs.  Milvey. 

(“My  dear,”  observed  her  husband  in  parenthesis,  “why 
not  ? ”) 

“  The  gentleman  certainly  is  a  Jew,”  said  Lizzie,  “  and  the 
lady,  his  wife,  is  a  Jewess,  and  I  was  first  brought  to  their 
notice  by  a  Jew.  But  I  think  there  cannot  be  kinder  people 
in  the  world.” 

“But  suppose  they  try  to  convert  you!”  suggested  Mrs. 
Milvey,  bristling  in  her  good  little  way,  as  a  clergyman’s  wife. 

“  To  do  what,  ma’am?  ”  asked  Lizzie,  with  a  modest  smile. 

“To  make  you  change  your  religion,”  said  Mrs.  Milvey. 

Lizzie  shook  her  head,  still  smiling.  “  They  have  never 
asked  me  what  my  religion  is.  They  asked  me  what  my  story 
was,  and  I  told  them.  They  asked  me  to  be  industrious  and 
faithful,  and  I  promised  to  be  so.  They  most  willingly  and 
cheerfully  do  their  duty  to  all  of  us  who  are  employed  here,  and 


39° 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


we  try  to  do  ours  to  them.  Indeed,  they  do  much  more  than 
their  duty  to  us,  for  they  are  wonderfully  mindful  of  us  in  many 
ways.” 

“  It  is  easy  to  see  you’re  a  favorite,  my  dear,”  said  little 
Mrs.  Milvey,  not  quite  pleased. 

“  It  would  be  very  ungrateful  in  me  to  say  I  am  not,”  re¬ 
turned  Lizzie,  “  for  I  have  been  already  raised  to  a  place  of 
confidence  here.  But  that  makes  no  difference  in  their  follow¬ 
ing  their  own  religion  and  leaving  all  of  us  to  ours.  They 
never  talk  of  theirs  to  us,  and  they  never  talk  of  ours  to  us. 
If  I  was  the  last  in  the  mill,  it  would  be  just  the  same.  They 
never  asked  me  what  religion  that  poor  thing  had  followed.” 

MISS  WREN’S  troublesome  child  was  in  the  corner  in 
deep  disgrace  and  exhibiting  great  wretchedness  in  the 
shivering  stage  of  prostration  from  drink. 

“Ugh,  you  disgraceful  boy  !  ”  exclaimed  Miss  Wren,  attracted 
by  the  sound  of  his  chattering  teeth,  “  I  wish  they’d  all  drop 
down  your  throat  and  play  at  dice  in  your  stomach  !  Boh, 
wicked  child  !  Bee-baa,  black  sheep  !  ” 


FROM  CHRISTMAS  STORIES 


FTER  several  turns,  he  sat  down  again.  As  he  threw  his 


±~\  head  back  in  the  chair,  his  glance  happened  to  rest  upon 
a  bell,  a  disused  bell,  that  hung  in  the  room,  and  communi¬ 
cated  for  some  purpose  now  forgotten  with  a  chamber  in  the 
highest  story  of  the  building.  It  was  with  great  astonishment, 
and  with  a  strange,  inexplicable  dread,  that  as  he  looked,  he 
saw  this  bell  begin  to  swing.  It  swung  so  softly  in  the  outset 
that  it  scarcely  made  a  sound ;  but  soon  it  rang  out  loudly,  and 
so  did  every  bell  in  the  house. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


3  91 


This  might  have  lasted  half  a  minute,  or  a  minute,  but  it 
seemed  an  hour.  The  bells  ceased  as  they  had  begun,  together. 
They  were  succeeded  by  a  clanking  noise,  deep  down  below, 
as  if  some  person  were  dragging  a  heavy  chain  over  the  casks 
in  the  wine-merchant’s  cellar.  Scrooge  then  remembered  to 
have  heard  that  ghosts  in  haunted  houses  were  described  as 
dragging  chains. 

The  cellar-door  flew  open  with  a  booming  sound,  and  then 
he  heard  the  noise  much  louder,  on  the  floors  below ;  then 
coming  up  the  stairs ;  then  coming  straight  towards  his  door. 

“  It’s  humbug  still !  ”  said  Scrooge.  “  I  won’t  believe  it.” 

His  color  changed  though,  when,  without  a  pause,  it  came 
on  through  the  heavy  door,  and  passed  into  the  room  before 
his  eyes.  Upon  its  coming  in,  the  dying  flame  leaped  up,  as 
though  it  cried  “I  know  him!  Marley’s  ghost!”  and  fell 
again. 

The  same  face  :  the  very  same.  Marley  in  his  pig-tail,  usual 
waistcoat,  tights,  and  boots  ;  the  tassels  on  the  latter  bristling, 
like  his  pig-tail,  and  his  coat-skirts,  and  the  hair  upon  his  head. 
The  chain  he  drew  was  clasped  about  his  middle.  It  was  long, 
and  wound  about  him  like  a  tail ;  and  it  was  made  (for  Scrooge 
observed  it  closely)  of  cash-boxes,  keys,  padlocks,  ledgers, 
deeds,  and  heavy  purses  wrought  in  steel.  His  body  was 
transparent;  so  that  Scrooge,  observing  him,  and  looking 
through  his  waistcoat,  could  see  the  two  buttons  on  his  coat 
behind. 

Scrooge  had  often  heard  it  said  that  Marley  had  no  bowels, 
but  he  had  never  believed  it  until  now. 

No,  nor  did  he  believe  it  even  now.  Though  he  looked  the 
phantom  through  and  through,  and  saw  it  standing  before  him : 
though  he  felt  the  chilling  influence  of  its  death-cold  eyes  ;  and 
marked  the  very  texture  of  the  folded  kerchief  bound  about  its 
head  and  chin,  which  wrapper  he  had  not  observed  before  ;  he 
was  still  incredulous,  and  fought  against  his  senses. 

“  How  now !  ”  said  Scrooge,  caustic  and  cold  as  ever. 
“  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  ” 


392 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Much  !  ” — Marley’s  voice,  no  doubt  about  it. 

“Who  are  you?” 

.  “  Ask  me  who  I  was.” 

“Who  were  you  then?”  said  Scrooge,  raising  his  voice. 
“You’re  particular,  for  a  shade.”  He  was  going  to  say  “to  a 
shade,”  but  substituted  this,  as  more  appropriate. 

“In  life  I  was  your  partner,  Jacob  Marley.” 

“  Can  you — can  you  sit  down  ?  ”  asked  Scrooge,  looking 
doubtfully  at  him. 

“I  can.” 

“  Do  it,  then.” 

Scrooge  asked  the  question,  because  he  didn’t  know  whether 
a  ghost  so  transparent  might  find  himself  in  a  condition  to  take 
a  chair;  and  felt  that  in  the  event  of  its  being  impossible,  it 
might  involve  the  necessity  of  an  embarrassing  explanation. 
But  the  ghost  sat  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  as 
if  he  were  quite  used  to  it. 

“You  don’t  believe  in  me,”  observed  the  Ghost. 

“  I  don’t,”  said  Scrooge. 

“  What  evidence  would  you  have  of  my  reality  beyond  that 
of  your  own  senses?” 

“  I  don’t  know,”  said  Scrooge. 

“Why  do  you  doubt  your  senses?” 

“Because,”  said  Scrooge,  “a  little  thing  affects  them.  A 
slight  disorder  of  the  stomach  makes  them  cheats.  You  may 
be  an  undigested  bit  of  beef,  a  blot  of  mustard,  a  crumb  of 
cheese,  a  fragment  of  an  underdone  potato.  There’s  more  of 
gravy  than  of  grave  about  you,  whatever  you  are  !  ” 

Scrooge  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of  cracking  jokes,  nor 
did  he  feel  in  his  heart  by  any  means  waggish  then.  The 
truth  is,  that  he  tried  to  be  smart,  as  a  means  of  distracting  his 
own  attention,  and  keeping  down  his  terror ;  for  the  spectre’s 
voice  disturbed  the  very  marrow  in  his  bones. 

To  sit,  staring  at  those  fixed  glazed  eyes,  in  silence  for  a  mo¬ 
ment,  would  play,  Scrooge  felt,  the  very  deuce  with  him.  There 
was  something  very  awful,  too,  in  the  spectre’s  being  provided 


PROMISCUOUS. 


393 


with  an  infernal  atmosphere  of  his  own.  Scrooge  could  not 

%  * 

feel  it  himself,  but  this  was  clearly  the  case  ;  for  though  the 
Ghost  sat  perfectly  motionless,  its  hair,  and  skirts,  and  tassels, 
were  still  agitated  as  by  the  hot  vapor  from  an  oven. 

“You  see  this  toothpick?”  said  Scrooge,  returning  quickly 
to  the  charge,  for  the  reason  just  assigned  ;  and  wishing,  though 
it  were  only  for  a  second,  to  divert  the  vision’s  stony  gaze  from 
himself. 

“I  do,”  replied  the  Ghost. 

“You  are  not  looking  at  it,”  said  Scrooge. 

“  But  I  see  it,”  said  the  Ghost,  “notwithstanding.” 

“Well !  ”  returned  Scrooge,  “  I  have  but  to  swallow  this,  and 
be  for  the  rest  of  my  days  persecuted  by  a  legion  of  goblins,  all 
of  my  own  creation.  Humbug,  I  tell  you  ;  humbug  !  ” 

At  this  the  spirit  raised  a  frightful  cry,  and  shook  its  chain 
with  such  a  dismal  and  appalling  noise,  that  Scrooge  held  on 
tight  to  his  chair,  to  save  himself  from  falling  in  a  swoon.  But 
how  much  greater  was  his  horror,  when  the  phantom  taking  off 
the  bandage  round  his  head,  as  if  it  were  too  warm  to  wear  in¬ 
doors,  its  lower  jaw  dropped  down  upon  its  breast ! 

BUT  he  was  early  at  the  office  next  morning.  Oh  he  was 
early  there.  If  he  could  only  be  there  first,  and  catch 
Bob  Cratchit  coming  late.  That  was  the  thing  he  had  set  his 
heart  upon. 

And  he  did  it;  yes  he  did!  The  clock  struck  nine.  No  Bob. 
A  quarter  past.  No  Bob.  He  was  full  eighteen  minutes  and 
a  half  behind  his  time.  Scrooge  sat  with  his  door  wide  open, 
that  he  might  see  him  come  into  the  Tank. 

His  hat  was  off,  before  he  opened  the  door ;  his  comforter 
too.  He  was  on  his  stool  in  a  jiffy ;  driving  away  with  his 
pen,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  overtake  nine  o’clock. 

“  Hallo  !  ”  growled  Scrooge,  in  his  accustomed  voice  as  near 
as  he  could  feign  it.  “  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  at 
this  time  of  day  ?  ” 

17* 


394 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS . 


“  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,”  said  Bob.  “  I  am  behind  my  time.” 

“You  are!”  repeated  Scrooge.  “Yes.  I  think  you  are. 
Step  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please.” 

“It’s  only  once  a  year,  sir,”  pleaded  Bob,  appearing  from 
the  Tank.  “  It  shall  not  be  repeated.  I  was  making  rather 
merry,  yesterday,  sir.” 

“  Now,  I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  friend,”  said  Scrooge.  “  I  am 
not  going  to  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any  longer.  And  there¬ 
fore,”  he  continued,  leaping  from  his  stool,  and  giving  Bob 
such  a  dig  in  the  waistcoat  that  he  staggered  back  into  the 
Tank  again:  “and  therefore  I  am  about  to  raise  your  salary!” 


66  T  T  EYDEY  !  ”  said  John,  iri  his  slow  way.  “  It’s  merrier 

JL  than  ever  to-night,  I  think.” 

“And  it’s  sure  to  bring  us  good  fortune,  John.  It  always 

has  done  so.  To  have  a  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  is  the  luckiest 

0 

thing  in  the  world  !  ” 

John  looked  at  her  as  if  he  had  very  nearly  got  the  thought 
into  his  head,  that  she  was  his  Cricket  in  chief,  and  he  quite 
agreed  with  her.  But,  it  was  probably  one  of  his  narrow 
escapes,  for  he  said  nothing. 

“The  first  time  I  heard  its  cheerful  little  note,  John,  was  on 
that  night  when  you  brought  me  home — when  you  brought  me 
to  my  new  home  here  ;  its  little  mistress.  Nearly  a  year  ago. 
You  recollect,  John  ?” 

O  yes.  John  remembered.  I  should  think  so  ! 

“Its  chirp  was  such  a  welcome  to  me  !  It  seemed  so  full 
of  promise  and  encouragement.  It  seemed  to  say,  you  would 
be  kind  and  gentle  with  me,  and  would  not  expect  (I  had  a 
fear  of  that,  John,  then)  to  find  an  old  head  on  the  shoulders 
of  your  foolish  little  wife.” 

John  thoughtfully  patted  one  of  the  shoulders,  and  then  the 
head,  as  though  he  would  have  said  no,  no ;  he  had  had  no 
such  expectation ;  he  had  been  quite  content  to  take  them  as 
they  were.  And  really  he  had  reason.  They  were  very 
comely. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


395 


“It  spoke  the  truth,  John,  when  it  seemed  to  say  so:  for 
you  have  ever  been,  I  am  sure,  the  best,  the  most  considerate, 
the  most  affectionate  of  husbands  to  me.  This  has  been  a 
happy  home,  John ;  and  I  love  the  Cricket  for  its  sake  !” 

“Why  so  do  I  then/’  said  the  Carrier.  “So  do  I,  Dot.” 

“  I  love  it  for  the  many  times  I  have  heard  it,  and  the  many 
thoughts  its  harmless  music  has  given  me.  Sometimes,  in  the 
twilight,  when  I  have  felt  a  little  solitary  and  down-hearted, 
John — before  baby  was  here,  to  keep  me  company  and  make 
the  house  gay — when  I  have  thought  how  lonely  you  would  be 
if  I  should  die ;  how  lonely  I  should  be,  if  I  could  know  that 
you  had  lost  me,  dear;  its  Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp  upon  the 
hearth,  has  seemed  to  tell  me  of  another  little  voice,  so  sweet, 
so  very  dear  to  me,  before  whose  coming  sound,  my  trouble 
vanished  like  a  dream.  And  when  I  used  to  fear — I  did  fear 
once,  John,  I  was  very  young  you  know — that  ours  might 
prove  to  be  an  ill-assorted  marriage,  I  being  such  a  child,  and 
you  more  like  my  guardian  than  my  husband ;  and  that  you 
might  not,  however  hard  you  tried,  be  able  to  learn  to  love 
me,  as  you  hoped  and  prayed  you  might ;  its  Chirp,  Chirp, 
Chirp,  has  cheered  me  up  again,  and  filled  me  with  new  trust 
and  confidence.  I  was  thinking  of  these  things  to-night,  dear, 
when  I  sat  expecting  you ;  and  I  love  the  Cricket  for  their 
sake !  ” 

SHE  was  about  thirty  years  old,  and  had  a  sufficiently  plump 
and  cheerful  face,  though  it  was  twisted  up  into  an  odd  ex¬ 
pression  of  tightness  that  made  it  comical.  But  the  extraordi¬ 
nary  homeliness  of  her  gait  and  manner  would  have  super¬ 
seded  any  face  in  the  world.  To  say  that  she  had  two  left  legs, 
and  somebody  else’s  arms,  and  that  all  four  limbs  seemed  to  be 
out  of  joint,  and  to  start  from  perfectly  wrong  places  when 
they  were  set  in  motion,  is  to  offer  the  mildest  outline  of  the 
reality.  To  say  that  she  was  perfectly  content  and  satisfied 
with  these  arrangements,  and  regarded  them  as  being  no  busi- 


396 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ness  of  hers,  and  that  she  took  her  arms  and  legs  as  they  came, 
and  allowed  them  to  dispose  of  themselves  just  as  it  happened, 
is  to  render  faint  justice  to  her  equanimity.  Her  dress  was  a 
prodigious  pair  of  self-willed  shoes,  that  never  wanted  to  go 
where  her  feet  went ;  blue  stockings ;  a  printed  gown  of  many 
colors  and  the  most  hideous  pattern  procurable  for  money  ;  and 
a  white  apron.  She  always  wore  short  sleeves,  and  always 
had,  by  some  accident,  grazed  elbows,  in  which  she  took  so 
lively  an  interest,  that  she  was  continually  trying  to  turn  them 
round  and  get  impossible  views  of  them.  In  general,  a  little 
cap  perched  somewhere  on  her  head ;  though  it  was  rarely  to 
be  met  with  in  the  place  usually  occupied  in  other  subjects  by 
that  article  of  dress  ;  but,  from  head  to  foot  she  was  scrupu¬ 
lously  clean,  and  maintained  a  kind  of  dislocated  tidiness.  In¬ 
deed,  her  laudable  anxiety  to  be  tidy  and  compact  in  her  own 
conscience  as  well  as  in  the  public  eye,  gave  rise  to  one  of  her 
most  startling  evolutions,  which  was  to  grasp  herself  sometimes 
by  a  sort  of  wooden  handle  (part  of  her  clothing,  and  familiarly 
called  a  busk),  and  wrestle  as  it  were  with  her  garments,  until 
they  fell  into  a  symmetrical  arrangement. 

Such,  in  outward  form  and  garb,  was  Clemency  Newcome. 

**"\7rOU  bad  boy!”  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  “ haven’t  you  any 
A.  feeling  for  your  poor  father  after  the  fatigues  and  anx¬ 
ieties  of  a  hard  winter’s  day,  since  five  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
but  must  you  wither  his  rest,  and  corrode  his  latest  intelligence, 
with  your  wicious  tricks  ?  Isn’t  it  enough,  sir,  that  your  brother 
’Dolphus  is  toiling  and  moiling  in  the  fog  and  cold,  and  you 
rolling  in  the  lap  of  luxury  with  a — with  a  baby,  and  everything 
you  can  wish  for,”  said  Mr.  Tetterby,  heaping  this  up  as  a  great 
climax  of  blessings,  “but  must  you  make  a  wilderness  of  home, 
and  maniacs  of  your  parents  ?  Must  you,  J  ohnny  ?  Hey  ?  ” 
At  each  interrogation,  Mr.  Tetterby  made  a  feint  of  boxing  his 
ears  again,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and  held  his  hand. 

“Oh,  father!”  whimpered  Johnny,  “when  I  wasn’t  doing 


PROMISCUOUS. 


397 


anything,  I’m  sure,  but  taking  such  care  of  Sally,  and  getting 
her  to  sleep.  Oh,  father  !” 

“  I  wish  my  little  woman  would  come  home  !  ”  said  Mr.  Tet- 
terby,  relenting  and  repenting,  “  I  only  wish  my  little  woman 
would  come  home  !  I  ain’t  fit  to  deal  with  ’em.  They  make 
my  head  go  round,  and  get  the  better  of  me.  Oh,  Johnny  ! 
Isn’t  it  enough  that  your  dear  mother  has  provided  you  with 
that  sweet  sister?”  indicating  Moloch  ;  “isn’t  it  enough  that 
you  were  seven  boys  before,  without  a  ray  of  gal,  and  that  your 
dear  mother  went  through  what  she  did  go  through,  on  purpose 
that  you  might  all  of  you  have  a  little  sister,  but  must  you  so 
behave  yourself  as  to  make  my  head  swim  ?  ” 

64"\/'OU’RE  right !”  returned  his  father,  listening.  “Yes, 
JL  that’s  the  footstep  of  my  little  woman.” 

The  process  of  induction,  by  which  Mr.  Tetterby  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  his  wife  was  a  little  woman,  was  his  own 
secret.  She  would  have  made  two  editions  of  himself,  very 
easily.  Considered  as  an  individual,  she  was  rather  remarka¬ 
ble  for  being  aobust  and  portly ;  but  considered  with  reference 
to  her  husband,  her  dimensions  became  magnificent.  Nor  did 
they  assume  a  less  imposing  proportion,  when  studied  with 
reference  to  the  size  of  her  seven  sons,  who  were  but  diminu¬ 
tive.  In  the  case  of  Sally,  however,  Mrs.  Tetterby  had  asserted 
herself  at  last ;  as  nobody  knew  better  than  the  victim  Johnny, 
who  weighed  and  measured  that  exacting  idol  every  hour  in  the 
day. 

MASTER  ADOLPHUS  was  also  in  the  newspaper  line 
of  life,  being  employed,  by  a  more  thriving  firm  than 
his  father  and  Co.,  to  vend  newspapers  at  a  railway  station, 
where  his  chubby  little  person,  like  a  shabbily  disguised  Cupid, 
and  his  shrill  little  voice  (he  was  not  much  more  than  ten 
years  old),  were  as  well  known  as  the  hoarse  panting  of  the 


398 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


locomotive,  running  in  and  out.  His  juvenility  might  have 
been  at  some  loss  for  'a  harmless  outlet,  in  this  early  applica¬ 
tion  to  traffic,  but  for  a  fortunate  discovery  he  made  of  a 
means  of  entertaining  himself,  and  of  dividing  the  long  day 
into  stages  of  interest,  without  neglecting  business.  This  in¬ 
genious  invention,  remarkable,  like  many  great  discoveries, 
for  its  simplicity,  consisted  in  varying  the  first  vowel  in  the 
word  “paper,”  and  substituting  in  its  stead,  at  different 
periods  of  the  day,  all  the  other  vowels  in  grammatical  succes¬ 
sion.  Thus,  before  daylight  in  the  winter-time,  he  went  to  and 
fro,  in  his  little  oilskin  cap  and  cape,  and  his  big  comforter, 
piercing  the  heavy  air  with  his  cry  of  “  Morn-ing  Pa-per !  ” 
which,  about  an  hour  before  noon,  changed  to  “  Morn-ing 
Pep-per !  ”  which,  at  about  two,  changed  to  “Morn-ing  Pip¬ 
per!”  which,  in  a  couple  of  hours,  changed  to  “  Morn-ing  Pop¬ 
per  !  ”  and  -so  declined  with  the  sun  into  “  Eve-ning  Pupper  !  ” 
to  the  great  relief  and  comfort  of  this  young  gentleman’s 
spirits. 

u OU  know,  ’Dolphus,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Tetterby, 
X  “  that  when  I  was  single,  I  might  have  given  myself 
away  in  several  directions.  At  one  time,  four  after  me  at 
once  ;  two  of  them  were  sons  of  Mars.” 

“We’re  all  sons  of  Ma’s,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Tetterby, 
“jointly  with  Pa’s.” 

“I  don’t  mean  that,”  replied  his  wife,  “I  mean  soldiers — 
serjeants.” 

“  Oh!”  said  Mr.  Tetterby. 


IT  was  a  peculiarity  of  this  baby  to  be  always  cutting  teeth. 

Whether  they  never  came,  or  whether  they  came  and  went 
away  again,  is  not  in  evidence  ;  but  it  had  certainly  cut 
enough,  on  the  showing  of  Mrs.  Tetterby,  to  make  a  handsome 
dental  provision  for  the  sign  of  the  Bull  and  Mouth.  All  sorts 


PROMISCUOUS. 


399 


of  objects  were  impressed  for  the  rubbing  of  its  gums,  notwith¬ 
standing  that  it  always,  carried,  dangling  at  its  waist  (which 
was  immediately  under  its  chin),  a  bone  ring,  large  enough  to 
have  represented  the  rosary  of  a  young  nun.  Knife-handles, 
umbrella-tops,  the  heads  of  walking-sticks  selected  from  the 
stock,  the  fingers  of  the  family  in  general,  but  especially  of 
Johnny,  nutmeg-graters,  crusts,  the  handles  of  doors,  and  the 
cool  knobs  on  the  tops  of  pokers,  were  among  the  commonest 
instruments  indiscriminately  applied  for  this  baby’s  relief.  The 
amount  of  electricity  that  must  have  been  rubbed  out  of  it  in  a 
week,  is  not  to  be  calculated.  Still  Mrs.  Tetterby  always  said 
“it  was  coming  through,  and  then  the  child  would  be  herself ; ” 
and  still  it  never  did  come  through,  and  the  child  continued  to 
be  somebody  else. 

The  tempers  of  the  little  Tetterbys  had  sadly  changed  with  a 
few  hours.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tetterby  themselves  were  not  more 
altered  than  their  offspring.  Usually  they  were  an  unselfish, 
good-natured,  yielding  little  race,  sharing  short-commons  when 
it  happened  (which  was  pretty  often)  contentedly  and  even 
generously,  and  taking  a  great  deal  of  enjoyment  out  of  a  very 
little  meat.  But  they  were  fighting  now,  not  only  for  the  soap 
and  water,  but  even  for  the  breakfast  which  was  yet  in  per¬ 
spective.  The  hand  of  every  little  Tetterby  was  against  the 
other  little  Tetterbys  ;  and  even  Johnny’s  hand — the  patient, 
much-enduring,  and  devoted  Johnny — rose  against  the  baby ! 
Yes.  Mrs.  Tetterby,  going  to  the  door  by  a  mere  accident, 
saw  him  viciously  pick  out  a  weak  place  in  the  suit  of  armor, 
where  a  slap  would  tell,  and  slap  that  blessed  child. 

Mrs.  Tetterby  had  him  in  the  parlor,  by  the  collar,  in  that 
same  flash  of  time,  and  repaid  him  the  assault  with  usury 
thereto. 

“You  brute,  you  murdering  little  boy,”  said  Mrs.  Tetterby. 
“  Had  you  the  heart  to  do  it  ?  ” 

“Why  don’t  her  teeth  come  through,  then,”  retorted  Johnny, 
in  a  loud  rebellious  voice,  “  instead  of  bothering  me?  How 
would  you  like  it  yourself?  ” 


400 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“  Like  it,  sir  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Tetterby,  relieving  him  of  his  dis¬ 
honored  load. 

“Yes,  like  it,”  said  Johnny.  “How  would  you?  Not  at 
all.  If  you  was  me,  you’d  go  for  a  soldier.  I  will,  too. 
There  an’t  no  babies  in  the  army.” 

Mr.  Tetterby,  who  had  arrived  upon  the  scene  of  action, 
rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully,  instead  of  correcting  the  rebel, 
and  seemed  rather  struck  by  this  view  of  a  military  life. 


FROM  SKETCHES. 

WE  will  begin  the  present  with  the  clergyman.  Our 
curate  is  a  young  gentleman  of  such  prepossessing  ap¬ 
pearance,  and  fascinating  manners,  that  within  one  month  after 
his  first  appearance  in  the  parish,  half  the  young-lady  inhabi¬ 
tants  were  melancholy  with  religion,  and  the  other  half,  de¬ 
sponding  with  love.  Never  were  so  many  young  ladies  seen 
in  our  parish-church  on  Sunday  before ;  and  never  had  the 
little  round  angels’  faces  on  Mr.  Tomkins’s  monument  in  the 
side  aisle  beheld  such  devotion  on  earth  as  they  all  exhibited. 
He  was  about  five-and-twenty  when  he  first  came  to  astonish- 
the  parishioners.  He  parted  his  hair  on  the  centre  of  his  fore¬ 
head  in  the  form  of  a  Norman  arch,  wore  a  brilliant  of  the  first 
water  on  the  fourth  finger  of  his  left  hand  (which  he  always  ap¬ 
plied  to  his  left  cheek  when  he  read  prayers),  and  had  a  deep 
sepulchral  voice  of  unusual  solemnity.  Innumerable  were  the 
calls  made  by  prudent  mammas  on  our  new  curate,  and  in¬ 
numerable  the  invitations  with  which  he  was  assailed,  and  which, 
to  do  him  justice,  he  readily  accepted. 

ONE  would  have  supposed  that,  by  this  time,  the  theme  of 
universal  admiration  was  lifted  to  the  very  pinnacle  of 
popularity.  No  such  thing.  The  curate  began  to  cough ; 


PROMISCUOUS. 


401 


four  fits  of  coughing  one  morning  between  the  Litany  and  the 
Epistle,  and  five  in  the  afternoon  service.  Here  was  a  dis¬ 
covery — the  curate  was  consumptive.  How  interestingly  mel¬ 
ancholy  !  If  the  young  ladies  were  energetic  before,  the 
sympathy  and  solicitude  now  knew  no  bounds.  Such  a  man 
as  the  curate — such  a  dear— such  a  perfect  love — to  be  con¬ 
sumptive  !  It  was  too  much.  Anonymous  presents  of  black¬ 
currant  jam,  and  lozenges,  elastic  waistcoats,  bosom  friends,  and 
warm  stockings,  poured  in  upon  the  curate  until  he  was  as 
completely  fitted  out  with  winter  clothing,  as  if  he  were  on  the 
verge  of  an  expedition  to  the  North  Pole ;  verbal  bulletins  of 
the  state  of  his  health  were  circulated  throughout  the  parish 
half-a-dozen  times  a  day  ;  and  the  curate  was  in  the  very  zenith 
of  his  popularity. 

SOME  phrenologists  affirm,  that  the  agitation  of  a  man’s  brain 
by  different  passions,  produces  corresponding  develop¬ 
ments  in  the  form  of  his  skull.  Do  not  let  us  be  understood 
as  pushing  our  theory  to  the  length  of  asserting,  that  any  alter¬ 
ation  in  a  man’s  disposition  would  produce  a  visible  effect  on 
the  feature  of  his  knocker.  Our  position  merely  is,  that  in 
such  a  case,  the  magnetism  which  must  exist  between  a  man 
and  his  knocker,  would  induce  the  man  to  remove,  and  seek 
some  knocker  more  congenial  to  his  altered  feelings.  If  you 
ever  find  a  man  changing  his  habitation  without  any  reasonable 
pretext,  depend  upon  it,  that,  although  he  may  not  be  aware 
of  the  fact  himself,  it  is  because  he  and  his  knocker  are  at 
variance.  This  is  a  new  theory,  but  we  venture  to  launch  it, 
nevertheless,  as  being  quite  as  ingenious  and  infallible  as  many 
thousand  of  the  learned  speculations  which  are  daily  broached 
for  public  good  and  private  fortune-making. 

WHEN  the  company  did  go  away,  instead  of  walking 
quietly  down  the  street,  as  anybody  else’s  company 
would  have  done,  they  amused  themselves  by  making  alarming 


402 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


and  frightful  noises,  and  counterfeiting  the  shrieks  of  females 
in  distress ;  and  one  night,  a  red-faced  gentleman  in  a  white 
hat  knocked  in  the,  most  urgent  manner  at  the  door  of  the 
powdered-headed  old  gentleman  at  No.  3,  and  when  the  pow¬ 
dered-headed  old  gentleman,  who  thought  one  of  his  married 
daughters  must  have  been  taken  ill  prematurely,  had  groped 
downstairs,  and  after  a  great  deal  of  unbolting  and  key-turn¬ 
ing,  opened  the  street-door,  the  red-faced  man  in  the  white  hat 
said  he  hoped  he’d  excuse  his  giving  him  so  much  trouble,  but 
he’d  feel  obliged  if  he’d  favor  him  with  a  glass  of  cold  spring 
water,  and  the  loan  of  a  shilling  for  a  cab  to  take  him  home, 
on  which  the  old  gentleman  slammed  the  door  and  went  up¬ 
stairs,  and  threw  the  contents  of  his  water-jug  out  of  window — 
very  straight,  only  it  went  over  the  wrong  man  ;  and  the  whole 
street  was  involved  in  confusion. 

ON  a  summer’s  evening,  when  the  large  watering-pot  has 
been  filled  and  emptied  some  fourteen  times,  and  the 
old  couple  have  quite  exhausted  themselves  by  trotting  about, 
you  will  see  them  sitting  happily  together  in  the  little  summer¬ 
house,  enjoying  the  calm  and  peace  of  the  twilight,  and  watch¬ 
ing  the  shadows  as  they  fall  upon  the  garden,  and  gradually 
growing  thicker  and  more  sombre,  obscure  the  tints  of  their 
gayest  flowers — no  bad  emblem  of  the  years  that  have  silently 
rolled  over  their  heads  deadening  in  their  course  the  brightest 
hues  of  early  hopes  and  feelings  which  have  long  since  faded 
away.  These  are  their  only  recreations,  and  they  require  no 
more.  They  have  within  themselves  the  materials  of  comfort 
and  content ;  and  the  only  anxiety  of  each,  is  to  die  before  the 
other. 


WE  grant  that  the  banks  of  the  Thames  are  very  beauti¬ 
ful  at  Richmond  and  Twickenham,  and  other  distant 
havens,  often  sought  though  seldom  reached ;  but  from  the 


PROMISCUOUS. 


403 


“  Red-us”  back  to  Blackfriar’s  Bridge,  the  scene  is  wonderfully 
changed.  The  Penitentiary  is  a  noble  building,  no  doubt,  and 
the  sportive  youths  who  “go  in”  at  that  particular  part  of  the 
river,  on  a  summer’s  evening,  may  be  all  very  well  in  perspec¬ 
tive  ;  but  when  you  are  obliged  to  keep  in  shore  coming  home, 
and  the  young  ladies  will  color  up,  and  look  perseveringly  the 
other  way,  while  the  married  dittoes  cough  slightly,  and  stare 
very  hard  at  the  water,  you  feel  awkward — especially  if  you 
happen  to  have  been  attempting  the  most  distant  approach  to 
sentimentality,  for  an  hour  or  two  previously. 

EVERY  woman  in  “  the  gardens,”  who  has  been  married 
for  any  length  of  time,  must  have  had  twins  on  two  or 
three  occasions  ;  it  is  impossible  to  account  for  the  extent  of 
juvenile  population  in  any  other  way. 

CHRISTMAS  time  !  That  man  must  be  a  misanthrope 
indeed,  in  whose  breast  something  like  a  jovial  feeling  is 
not  roused — in  whose  mind  some  pleasant  associations  are  not 
awakened — by  the  recurrence  of  Christmas.  There  are  peo¬ 
ple  who  will  tell  you  that  Christmas  is  not  to  them  what  it  used 
to  be ;  that  each  succeeding  Christmas  has  found  some  cher¬ 
ished  hope,  or  happy  prospect,  of  the  year  before,  dimmed  or 
passed  away ;  that  the  present  only  serves  to  remind  them 
of  reduced  circumstances  and  straightened  incomes — of  the 
feasts  they  once  bestowed  on  hollow  friends,  and  of  the  cold 
looks  that  meet  them  now,  in  adversity  and  misfortune.  Never 
heed  such  dismal  reminiscences.  There  are  few  men  who  have 
lived  long  enough  in  the  world,  who  cannot  call  up  such 
thoughts  any  day  in  the  year.  Then  do  not  select  the  merriest 
of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  for  your  doleful  recol¬ 
lections,  but  draw  your  chair  nearer  the  blazing  fire — fill  the 
glass  and  send  round  the  song — and  if  your  room  be  smaller 
than  it  was  a  dozen  years  ago,  or  if  your  glass  be  filled  with 


404 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


reeking  punch,  instead  of  sparkling  wine,  put  a  good  face  on 
the  matter,  and  empty  it  off-hand,  and  fill  another,  and  troll  off 
the  old  ditty  you  used  to  sing,  and  thank  God  it’s  no  worse. 
Look  on  the  merry  faces  of  your  children  (if  you  have  any)  as 
they  sit  round  the  fire.  One  little  seat  may  be  empty ;  one 
slight  form  that  gladdened  the  father’s  heart,  and  roused  the 
mother’s  pride  to  look  upon,  may  not  be  there.  Dwell  not 
upon  the  past ;  think  not  that  one  short  year  ago,  the  fair 
child  now  resolving  into  dust,  sat  before  you,  with  the  bloom  of 
health  upon  its  cheek,  and  the  gayety  of  infancy  in  its  joyous 
eye.  Reflect  upon  your  present  blessings  — of  which  every  man 
has  many — not  on  your  past  misfortunes,  of  which  all  men  have 
some.  Fill  your  glass  again,  with  a  merry  face  and  contented 
heart.  Our  life  on  it,  but  your  Christmas  shall  be  merry,  and 
your  new  year  a  happy  one. 

Who  can  be  insensible  to  the  outpourings  of  good  feeling, 
and  the  honest  interchange  of  affectionate  attachment,  which 
abound  at  this  season  of  the  year  ?  A  Christmas  family  party  ! 
We  know  nothing  in  nature  more  delightful !  There  seems  a 
magic  in  the  very  name  of  Christmas.  Petty  jealousies  and 
discords  are  forgotten  ;  social  feelings  are  awakened,  in  bosoms 
to  which  they  have  long  been  strangers  ;  father  and  son,  or 
brother  and  sister,  who  have  met  and  passed  with  averted  gaze, 
or  a  look  of  cold  recognition,  for  months  before,  proffer  and 
return  the  cordial  embrace,  and  bury  their  past  animosities  in 
their  present  happiness.  Kindly  hearts  that  have  yearned 
towards  each  other,  but  have  been  withheld  by  false  notions  of 
pride  and  self-dignity,  are  again  reunited,  and  all  is  kindness 
and  benevolence  !  Would  that  Christmas  lasted  the  whole 
year  through  (as  it  ought),  and  that  the  prejudices  and  passions 
which  deform  our  better  nature,  were  never  called  into  action 
among  those  to  whom  they  should  ever  be  strangers  ! 

u^pHE  Misses  Crumpton,”  were  two  unusually  tall,  par- 
JL  ticularly  thin,  and  exceedingly  skinny  personages  ;  very 
upright,  and  very  yellow.  Miss  Amelia  Crumpton  owned  to 


PROMISCUOUS. 


405 


thirty-eight,  and  Miss  Maria  Crumpton  admitted  she  was  forty ; 
an  admission  which  was  rendered  perfectly  unnecessary  by  the 
self-evident  fact  of  her  being  at  least  fifty.  They  dressed  in 
the  most  interesting  manner — like  twins  ;  and  looked  as  happy 
and  comfortable  as  a  couple  of  marigolds  run  to  seed.  They 
were  very  precise,  had  the  strictest  possible  ideas  of  propriety, 
wore  false  hair,  and  always  smelt  very  strongly  of  lavender. 


RS.  TIBBS  was  somewhat  short  of  stature,  and  Mr. 


1VJL  Tibbs  was  by  no  means  a  large  man.  He  had,  more¬ 
over,  very  short  legs,  but  by  way  of  indemnification,  his  face 
was  peculiarly  long.  He  was  to  his  wife  what  the  o  is  in  90 
— he  was  of  some  importance  with  her — he  was  nothing  with¬ 
out  her.  Mrs.  Tibbs  was  always  talking.  Mr.  Tibbs  rarely 
spoke ;  but,  if  it  were  at  any  time  possible  to  put  in  a  word, 
when  he  should  have  said  nothing  at  all,  he  had  that  talent. 
Mrs.  Tibbs  detested  long  stories,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  had  one,  the 
conclusion  of  which  had  never  been  heard  by  his  most  intimate 
friends.  It  always  began,  “  I  recollect  when  I  was  in  the  volun¬ 
teer  corps,  in  eighteen  hundred  and  six,” — but,  as  he  spoke 
very  slowly  and' softly,  and  his  better  half  very  quickly  and 
loudly,  he  rarely  got  beyond  the  introductory  sentence.  He 
was  a  melancholy  specimen  of  the  story-teller.  He  was  the 
wandering  Jew  of  Joe  Millerism. 

R.  C ALTON  was  a  superannuated  beau — an  old  boy. 


TVJL  He  used  to  say  of  himself  that  although  his  features 
were  not  regularly  handsome,  they  were  striking.  They  cer¬ 
tainly  were.  It  was  impossible  to  look  at  his  face  without  be¬ 
ing  reminded  of  a  chubby  street-door  knocker,  half-lion  half¬ 
monkey  ;  and  the  comparison  might  be  extended  to  his  whole 
character  and  conversation.  He  had  stood  still,  while  every¬ 
thing  else  had  been  moving.  He  never  originated  a  conversa¬ 
tion,  or  started  an  idea;  but  if  any  common-place  topic  were 


40  6 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


broached,  or,  to  pursue  the  comparison,  if  anybody  lifted  him 
up,  he  would  hammer  away  with  surprising  rapidity.  He  had 
the  tic-doloreux  occasionally,  and  then  he  might  be  said  to  be 
muffled,  because  he  did  not  make  quite  as  much  noise  as  at 
other  times,  when  he  would  go  on  prosing,  rat-tat-tat  the  same 
thing  over  and  over  again.  He  had  never  been  married  ;  but 
he  was  still  on  the  look-out  for  a  wife  with  money.  He  had  a 
life  interest  worth  about  300/.  a  year — he  was  exceedingly  vain, 
and  inordinately  selfish.  He  had  acquired  the  reputation  of 
being  the  very  pink  of  politeness,  and  he  walked  round  the 
park,  and  up  Regent  Street,  every  day. 


RS.  MAPLESONE  was  an  enterprising  widow  of  about 


-L V X  fifty  :  shrewd,  scheming,  and  good-looking.  She  was 
amiably  anxious  on  behalf  of  her  daughters ;  in  proof  whereof 
she  used  to  remark,  that  she  would  have  no  objection  to  marry 
again,  if  it  would  benefit  her  dear  girls — she  could  have  no 
other  motive.  The  “dear  girls”  themselves  were  not  at  all 
insensible  to  the  merits  of  “a  good  establishment.”  One  of 
them  was  twenty-five  ;  the  other,  three  years  younger.  They 
had  been  at  different  watering-places,  for  four  seasons :  they 
had  gambled  at  libraries,  read  books  in  balconies,  sold  at  fancy 
fairs,  danced  at  assemblies,  talked  sentiment — in  short,  they 
had  done  all  that  industrious  girls  could  do — but,  as  yet,  to  no 
purpose. 

7 ELL,  my  dear  ma’am,  and  how  are  we?”  inquired 
V  V  Wosky,  in  a  soothing  tone. 

“Very  ill,  doctor — very  ill,”  said  Mrs.  Bloss,  in  a  whisper. 

“  Ah  !  we  must  take  care  of  ourselves ; — we  must,  indeed,” 
said  the  obsequious  Wosky,  as  he  felt  the  pulse  of  his  interest¬ 
ing  patient. 

“  How  is  our  appetite  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Bloss  shook  her  head. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


407 

“  Our  friend  requires  great  care/’  said  Wosky,  appealing  to 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  who.  of  course  assented.  “  I  hope,  however,  with 
the  blessing  of  Providence,  that  we  shall  be  enabled  to  make 
her  quite  stout  again.”  Mrs.  Tibbs  wondered  in  her  own  mind 
what  the  patient  would  be  when  she  was  made  quite  stout. 

“We  must  take  stimulants,”  said  the  cunning  Wosky — 
“  plenty  of  nourishment,  and,  above  all,  we  must  keep  our 
nerves  quiet ;  we  positively  must  not  give  way  to  our  sensibili¬ 
ties.  We  must  take  all  we  can  get,”  concluded  the  doctor,  as 
he  pocketed  his  fee,  “  and  we  must  keep  quiet.” 

“  Dear  man  !  ”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bloss,  as  the  doctor  stepped 
into  his  carriage. 

“Charming  creature  indeed — quite  a  lady’s  man!”  said 
Mrs.  Tibbs,  and  Doctor  Wosky  rattled  away  to  make  fresh 
gulls  of  delicate  females,  and  pocket  fresh  fees. 


FROM  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

ONE  man  cast  up  by  the  sea  bore  about  him,  printed  on  a 
perforated  lace  card,  the  following  singular  (and  unavail¬ 
ing)  charm : 

A  BLE38XNG. 

May  the  blessing  of  God  await  thee.  May  the  sun  of  glory 
shine  around  thy  bed ;  and  may  the  gates  of  plenty,  honor,  and 
happiness  be  ever  open  to  thee.  May  no  sorrow  distress  thy 
days  ;  may  no  grief  disturb  thy  nights.  May  the  pillow  of 
peace  kiss  thy  cheek,  and  the  pleasures  of  imagination  attend 
thy  dreams ;  and  when  length  of  years  makes  thee  tired  of 
earthly  joys,  and  the  curtain  of  death  gently  closes  around  thy 
last  sleep  of  human  existence,  may  the  Angel  of  God  attend 
thy  bed,  and  take  care  that  the  expiring  lamp  of  life  shall  not 
receive  one  rude  blast  to  hasten  on  its  extinction. 


40S 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


THERE  was  a  model  pauper  introduced  in  like  manner, 
who  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  most  intolerably  arrogant 
pauper  ever  relieved,  and  to  show  himself  in  absolute  want  and 
dire  necessity  of  a  course  of  Stone  Yard.  For  how  did  this 
pauper  testify  to  his  having  received  the  gospel  of  humility  ? 
A  gentleman  met  him  in  the  workhouse,  and  said  (which  I  my¬ 
self  really  thought  good-natured  of  him),  “  Ah,  John  !  I  am  sorry 
to  see  you  here.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  poor."  “  Poor,  sir  !  ’’ 
replied  that  man,  drawing  himself  up,  “  I  am  the  son  of  a 
Prince  !  My  father  is  the  King  of  kings.  My  father  is  the 
Lord  of  lords.  My  father  is  the  ruler  of  all  the  Princes  of  the 
earth  !  ”  etc.  And  this  was  what  all  the  preacher’s  fellow- 
sinners  might  come  to,  if  they  would  embrace  this  blessed 
book — which  I  must  say  it  did  some  violence  to  my  own  feel¬ 
ings  of  reverence  to  see  held  out  at  arm’s-length  at  frequent 
intervals,  and  soundingly  slapped,  like  a  slow  lot  at  a  sale. 
Now,  could  I  help  asking  myself  the  question,  whether  the 
mechanic  before  me,  who  must  detect  the  preacher  as  being 
wrong  about  the  visible  manner  of  himself  and  the  like  of  him¬ 
self,  and  about  such  a  noisy  lip-server  as  that  pauper,  might 
not,  most  unhappily  for  the  usefulness  of  the  occasion,  doubt 
that  preacher’s  being  right  about  things  not  visible  to  human 
senses  ? 

Again.  Is  it  necessary  or  advisable  to  address  such  an  audi¬ 
ence  continually  as  “  fellow-sinners’’  ?  Is  it  not  enough  to  be 
fellow-creatures,  born  yesterday,  suffering  and  striving  to-day, 
dying  to-morrow  ?  By  our  common  humanity,  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  by  our  common  capacities  for  pain  and  pleasure,  by 
our  common  laughter  and  our  common  tears,  by  our  common 
aspiration  to  reach  something  better  than  ourselves,  by  our 
common  tendency  to  believe  in  something  good,  and  to  invest 
whatever  we  love  or  whatever  we  lose  with  some  qualities  that 
are  superior  to  our  own  failings  and  weaknesses  as  we  know 
them  in  our  own  poor  hearts — by  these,  hear  me ! — surely  it  is 
enough  to  be  fellow-creatures.  Surely  it  includes  the  other 
designation,  and  some  touching  meanings  over  and  above.  ' 


PROMISCUOUS. 


409 

THAT  these  Sunday  meetings  in  Theatres  are  good  things, 
I  do  not  doubt.  Nor  do  I  doubt  that  they  will  work 
lower  and  lower  down  in  the  social  scale,  if  those  who  preside 
over  them  will  be  very  careful  on  two  heads  :  firstly,  not  to 
disparage  the  places  in  which  they  speak,  or  the  intelligence 
of  their  hearers;  secondly,  not  to  set  themselves  in  antagonism 
to  the  natural  inborn  desire  of  the  mass  of  mankind  to  recreate 
themselves  and  to  be  amused. 

AS  master  of  the  ceremonies,  he  called  all  the  figures,  and 
occasionally  addressed  himself  parenthetically  after  this 
manner.  When  he  was  very  loud,  I  use  capitals. 

“Now  den!  Hoy!  One.  Right  and  left.  (Put  a  steam 
on,  gib ’urn  powder.)  LA-dies’ chail.  Bal- loon  say.  Lemon¬ 
ade  !  Two.  AD-warnse  and  go  back  (gib  ’ell  a  breakdown, 
shake  it  out  o’  yerselbs,  keep  a  movil).  SwiNG-corners,  Bal- 
I0011  say,  and  Lemonade  !  (Hoy  ! )  Three.  Gent  come 
for’ard  with  a  lady  and  go  back,  hoppersite  come  for’ard  and 
do  what  yer  can.  (Aeiohoy ! )  Bal-Iooii  say,  and  leetle 
lemonade  (Dat  hair  nigger  by  ’um  fireplace ’hind  a’  time,  shake 
it  out  o’  yerselbs,  gib  ’ell  a  breakdown).  Now  den !  Hoy  ! 
Four  !  Lemonade.  Bal-Iooii  say,  and  swing.  Four  ladies 
meets  in  ’um  middle,  four  gents  goes  round  ’um  ladies,  four 
gents  passes  out  under ’um  ladies’  arms,  swing, — and  lemonade 
till  ’a  moosic  can’t  play  no  more  !  (Hoy,  Hoy  !)  ” 

The  male  dancers  were  all  blacks,  and  one  was  an  unusually 
powerful  man  of  six  feet  three  or  four.  The  sound  of  their 
flat  feet  on  the  floor  was  as  unlike  the  sound  of  white  feet  as 
their  faces  were  unlike  white  faces.  They  toed  and  heeled, 
shuffled,  double-shuffled,  double-double-shuffled,  covered  the 
buckle,  and  beat  the  time  out  rarely,  dancing  with  a  great  show 
of  teeth,  and  with  a  childish  good-humored  enjoyment  that 
was  very  prepossessing. 

I  AM  bound  to  acknowledge  (as  it  tends  rather  to  my  un¬ 
commercial  confusion),  that  I  occasioned  a  difficulty  in 
this  establishment  by  having  taken  the  child  in  my  arms.  For 
18 


4io 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


on  my  offering  to  restore  it  to  a  ferocious  joker,  not  unstimu- 
lated  by  rum,  who  claimed  to  be  its  mother,  that  unnatural 
parent  put  her  hands  behind  her,  and  declined  to  accept  it ; 
backing  into  the  fireplace,  and  very  shrilly  declaring,  regardless 
of  remonstrance  from  her  friends,  that  she  knowed  it  to  be  Law, 
that  whoever  took  a  child  from  its  mother,  of  his  own  will,  was 
bound  to  stick  to  it. 


THE  opening  of  the  service  recalls  my  wandering  thoughts. 

I  then  find,  to  my  astonishment,  that  I  have  been,  and 
still  am,  taking  a  strong  kind  of  invisible  snuff  up  my  nose, 
into  my  eyes  and  down  my  throat.  I  wink,  sneeze,  and  cough. 
The  clerk  sneezes,  the  clergyman  winks,  the  unseen  organist 
sneezes  and  coughs  (and  probably  winks)  ;  all  our  little  party 
wink,  sneeze,  and  cough.  The  snuff  seems  to  be  made  of  the 
decay  of  matting,  wood,  cloth,  stone,  iron,  earth,  and  some¬ 
thing  else.  Is  the  something  else  the  decay  of  dead  citizens 
in  the  vaults  below?  As  sure  as  Death  it  is  !  Not  only  in  the 
cold,  damp  February  day  do  we  cough  and  sneeze  dead 
citizens,  all  through  the  service,  but  dead  citizens  have  got 
into  the  very  bellows  of  the  organ,  and  half  choked  the  same. 
We  stamp  our  feet  to  warm  them,  and  dead  citizens  arise  in 
heavy  clouds.  Dead  citizens  stick  upon  the  walls,  and  lie 
pulverized  on  the  sounding-board  over  the  clergyman’s  head, 
and,  when  a  gust  of  air  comes,  tumble  down  upon  him. 

FROM  the  dead  wall  associated  on  those  houseless  nights 
with  this  too-common  story,  I  chose  next  to  wander  by 
Bethlehem  Hospital, — partly  because  it  lay  on  my  road  round 
to  Westminster,  partly  because  I  had  a  night  fancy  in  my  head 
which  could  be  best  pursued  within  sight  of  its  walls  and  dome. 
And  the  fancy  was  this  :  Are  not  the  sane  and  the  insane 
equal  at  night  as  the  sane  lie  a-dreaming  ?  Are  not  all  of  us 
outside  this  hospital,  who  dream,  more  or  less  in  the  condition 


PROMISCUOUS. 


411 

of  those  inside  it,  every  night  of  our  lives  ?  Are  we  not  nightly 
persuaded,  as  they  daily  are,  that  we  associate  preposterously 
with  kings  and  queens,  emperors  and  empresses,  and  notabili¬ 
ties  of  all  sorts  ?  Do  we  not  nightly  jumble  events  and  person¬ 
ages  and  times  and  places,  as  these  do  daily  ?  Are  we  not 
sometimes  troubled  by  our  own  sleeping  inconsistencies,  and 
do  we  not  vexedlytry  to  account  for  them  or  excuse  them,  just 
as  these  do  sometimes  in  respect  of  their  waking  delusions  ? 
Said  an  afflicted  man  to  me,  when  I  was  last  in  a  hospital  like 
this,  “  Sir,  I  can  frequently  fly.”  I  was  half  ashamed  to  reflect 
that  so  could  I — by  night.  Said  a  woman  to  me  on  the  same 
occasion,  “  Queen  Victoria  frequently  comes  to  dine  with  me  ; 
and  her  Majesty  and  I  dine  off  peaches  and  maccaroni  in  our 
nightgowns,  and  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Consort  does  us 
the  honor  to  make  a  third  on  horseback  in  a  Field-Marshal’s 
uniform.”  Could  I  refrain  from  reddening  with  consciousness 
when  I  remembered  the  amazing  royal  parties  I  myself  had 
given  (at  night),  the  unaccountable  viands  I  had  put  on 
table,  and  my  extraordinary  manner  of  conducting  myself  on 
those  distinguished  occasions  ?.  I  wonder  that  the  great  master 
who  knew  everything,  when  he  called  Sleep  the  death  of  each 
day’s  life,  did  not  call  Dreams  the  insanity  of  each  day’s  san¬ 
ity. 

WHEN  the  American  civil  war  rendered  it  necessary,  first 
in  Glasgow,  and  afterwards  in  Manchester,  that  the 
working  people  should  be  shown  how  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
advantages  derivable  from  system,  and  from  the  combination  of 
numbers,  in  the  purchase  and  the  cooking  of  their  food,  this 
truth  was  above  all  things  borne  in  mind.  The  quick  conse¬ 
quence  was,  that  suspicion  and  reluctance  were  vanquished,  and 
that  the  effort  resulted  in  an  astonishing  and  a  complete  suc¬ 
cess. 

Such  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  on  a  July  morning  of 
this  summer,  as  I  walked  towards  Commercial  Street  (not  Un- 


412 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


commercial  Street),  Whitechapel.  The  Glasgow  and  Manchester 
system  had  been  lately  set  a-going  there  by  certain  gentlemen 
who  felt  an  interest  in  its  diffusion,  and  I  had  been  attracted  by 
the  following  hand-bill  printed  on  rose-colored  paper  : — 

SELF-SUPPORTING 

COOKING  DEPOT 

FOR  THE  WORKING  CLASSES, 

Commercial  Street,  Whitechapel, 

Where  Accommodation  is  provided  for  Dining 
comfortably  300  Persons 
at  a  time. 

Open  from  7  a.  m.  till  7  p.  m. 

PRICES. 

All  Articles  of  the  Best  Quality. 


Cup  of  Tea  or  Coffee . One  Penny 

Bread  and  Butter . One  Penny 

Bread  and  Cheese . One  Penny 

Slice  of  Bread  One  Half-penny- or . One  Penny 

Boiled  Egg . One  Penny 

Ginger  Beer . One  Penny 


The  above  Articles  always  ready. 
Besides  the  above  may  be  had,  from 
12  to  3  o’clock, 


Bowl  of  Scotch  Broth . One  Penny 

Bowl  of  Soup . One  Penny 

Plate  of  Potatoes  . . One  Penny 

Plate  of  Minced  Beef . Twopence 

Plate  of  Cold  Beef . Twopence 

Plate  of  Cold  Ham . .  Twopence 

Plate  of  Plum  Pudding,  or  Rice . One  Penny 


WHAT  a  city  Lyons  is  !  Talk  about  people  feeling,  at 
certain  unlucky  times,  as  if  they  had  tumbled  from  the 
clouds  !  Here  is  a  whole  town  that  has  tumbled,  anyhow,  out 
of  the  sky ;  having  been  first  caught  up,  like  other  stones  that 
tumble  down  from  that  region,  out  of  fens  and  barren  places, 
dismal  to  behold !  The  two  great  streets  through  which  the 


PROMISCUOUS. 


413 


two  great  rivers  dash,  and  all  the  little  streets  whose  name  is 
Legion,  were  scorching,  blistering,  and  sweltering.  The 
houses,  high  and  vast,  dirty  to  excess,  rotten  as  old  cheeses, 
and  as  thickly  peopled.  All  up  the  hills  that  hem  the  city  in, 
these  houses  swarm ;  and  the  mites  inside  were  lolling  out  of 
the  windows,  and  drying  their  ragged  clothes  on  poles,  and 
crawling  in  and  out  at  the  doors,  and  coming  out  to  pant  and 
gasp  upon  the  pavement,  and  creeping  in  and  out  among  huge 
piles  and  bales  of  fusty,  musty,  stifling  goods ;  and  living,  or 
rather  not  dying  till  their  time  should  come,  in  an  exhausted 
receiver. 


HEY  are  not  a  very  joyous  people,  and  are  seldom  seen 


JL  to  dance  on  their  holidays  :  the  staple  places  of  enter¬ 
tainment  among  the  women,  being  the  churches  and  the  public 
walks.  They  are  very  good-tempered,  obliging,  and  indus¬ 
trious.  Industry  has  not  made  them  clean,  for  their  habita¬ 
tions  are  extremely  filthy,  and  their  usual  occupation  on  a  fine 
Sunday  morning,  is  to  sit  at  their  doors,  hunting  in  each  others’ 
heads.  But  their  dwellings  are  so  close  and  confined  that  if 
these  parts  of  the  city  had  been  beaten  down  by  Massena  in 
the  time  of  the  terrible  Blockade,  it  would  have  at  least  occa¬ 
sioned  one  public  benefit  among  many  misfortunes. 

The  Peasant  Women,  with  naked  feet  and  legs,  are  so  con¬ 
stantly  washing  clothes  in  the  public  tanks,  and  in  every  stream 
and  ditch,  that  one  cannot  help  wondering,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  dirt,  who  wears  them  when  they  are  clean.  The  custom 
is  to  lay  the  wet  linen  which  is  being  operated  upon,  on  a 
smooth  stone,  and  hammer  away  at  it,  with  a  flat  wooden 
mallet.  This  they  do,  as  furiously  as  if  they  were  revenging 
themselves  on  dress  in  general  for  being  connected  with  the 
Fall  of  Mankind. 

It  is  not  unusual  to  see,  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  tank  at 
these  times,  or  on  another  flat  stone,  an  unfortunate  baby, 
tightly  swathed  up,  arms  and  legs  and  all,  in  an  enormous 


414 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


quantity  of  wrapper,  so  that  it  is  unable  to  move  a  toe  or 
finger.  This  custom  (which  we  often  see  represented  in  old 
pictures)  is  universal  among  the  common  people.  A  child  is 
left  anywhere  without  the  possibility  of  crawling  away,  or  is 
accidentally  knocked  off  a  shelf,  or  tumbled  out  of  bed,  or  is 
hung  up  to  a  hook  now  and  then,  and  left  dangling  like  a  doll 
at  an  English  rag  shop,  without  the  least  inconvenience  to 
anybody. 

HEN  the  better  kind  of  people  die,  or  are  at  the  point 


of  death,  their  nearest  relations  generally  walk  off ;  re¬ 


tiring  into  the  country  for  a  little  change,  and  leaving  the  body 
to  be  disposed  of,  without  any  superintendence  from  them. 
The  procession  is  usually  formed,  and  the  coffin  borne,  and 
the  funeral  conducted,  by  a  body  of  persons  called  a  Confra- 
ternita,  who,  as  a  kind  of  voluntary  penance,  undertake  to  per¬ 
form  these  offices,  in  regular  rotation,  for  the  dead ;  but  who, 
mingling  something  of  pride  with  their  humility,  are  dressed  in 
a  loose  garment  covering  their  whole  person,  and  wear  a  hood 
concealing  the  face  ;  with  breathing-holes  and  apertures  for  the 
eyes.  The  effect  of  this  costume  is  very  ghastly  :  especially  in 
the  case  of  a  certain  Blue  Confraternita  belonging  to  Genoa, 
who,  to  say  the  least  of  them,  are  very  ugly  customers,  and 
who  look — suddenly  encountered  in  their  pious  ministration  in 
the  streets — as  if  they  were  Ghoules  or  Demons,  bearing  off 
the  body  for  themselves. 


FROM  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. 


“npHIS  is  my  birthday,  Pip.” 

JL  I  was  going  to  wish  her  many  happy  returns,  when  she 
lifted  her  stick. 


PROMISCUOUS. 


415 


“I  don’t  suffer  it  to  be  spoken  of.  I  don’t  suffer  those  who 
were  here  just  now,  or  any  one  to  speak  of  it.  They  come 
here  on  the  day,  but  they  dare  not  refer  to  it.” 

Of  course  /  made  no  further  efforts  to  refer  to  it. 

“  On  this  day  of  the  year,  long  before  you  were  born,  this 
heap  of  decay,”  stabbing  with  her  crutched  stick  at  the  pile  of 
cobwebs  on  the  table  but  not  touching  it,  “  was  brought  here. 
It  and  I  have  worn  away  together.  The  mice  have  gnawed  at 
it,  and  sharper  teeth  than  teeth  of  mice  have  gnawed  at  me.” 

She  held  the  head  of  her  stick  against  her  heart  as  she  stood 
looking  at  the  table  ;  she  in  her  once  white  dress,  all  yellow 
and  withered ;  the  once  white  cloth  ail  yellow  and  withered ; 
everything  around,  in  a  state  to  crumble  under  a  touch. 

“  When  the  ruin  is  complete,”  said  she,  with  a  ghastly  look, 
“  and  when  they  lay  me  dead,  in  my  bride’s  dress  on  the  bride’s 
table — which  shall  be  done,  and  which  will  be  the  finished  curse 
upon  him — so  much  the  better  if  it  is  done  on  this  da^  !  ” 

She  stood  looking  at  the  table  as  if  she  stood  looking  at  her 
own  figure  lying  there.  I  remained  quiet.  Estella  returned, 
and  she  too  remained  quiet.  It  seemed  to  me  that  we  con¬ 
tinued  thus  a  long  time.  In  the  heavy  air  of  the  room,  and 
the  heavy  darkness  that  brooded  in  its  remoter  corners,  I  even 
had  an  alarming  fancy  that  Estella  and  I  might  presently  begin 
to  decay. 

LET  me  introduce  the  topic,  Handel,  by  mentioning  that 
in  London  it  is  not  the  custom  to  put  the  knife  in  the 
mouth — for  fear  of  accidents — and  that  while  the  fork  is  re¬ 
served  for  that  use,  it  is  not  put  farther  in  than  necessary.  It 
is  scarcely  worth  mentioning,  only  it’s  as  well  to  do  as  other 
people  do.  Also,  the  spoon  is  not  generally  used  over-hand, 
but  under.  This  has  two  advantages.  You  get  at  your  mouth 
better  (which  after  all  is  the  object),  and  you  save  a  good  deal 
of  the  attitude  of  opening  oysters,  on  the  part  of  the  right  el¬ 
bow.” 


416 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


He  offered  these  friendly  suggestions  in  such  a  lively  way, 
that  we  both  laughed  and  I  scarcely  blushed. 


AVE  you  seen  anything  of  London,  yet  ?  ” 


JL  X  “Why,  yes,  sir,”  said  Joe,  “me  and  Wopsle  went 
off  straight  to  look  at  the  Blacking  Ware’us.  But  we  didn’t 
find  that  it  come  up  to  its  likeness  in  the  red  bills  at  the  shop 
doors  ;  which  I  meantersay,”  added  Joe,  in  an  explanatory  man¬ 
ner,  “  as  it  is  there  drawd  too  architectooralooral.” 

I  ASKED  Joe  whether  he  had  heard  if  any  of  the  other  rela¬ 
tions  had  any  legacies  ? 

“Miss  Sarah,”  said  Joe,  “she  have  twenty-five  pound peran- 
nium  fur  to  buy  pills,  on  account  of  being  bilious.  Miss 

Georgiana,  she  have  twenty  pound  down.  Mrs. - what’s  the 

name  of  them  wild  beasts  with  humps,  old  chap  ?  ” 

“  Camels  ?  ”  said  I,  wondering  what  he  could  possibly  want 
to  know. 

Joe  nodded.  “Mrs.  Camels,”  by  which  I  presently  under¬ 
stood  he  meant  Camilla,  “  she  have  five  pound  fur  to  buy  rush¬ 
lights  to  put  her  in  spirits  when  she  wake  up  in  the  night.” 


IP,  dear  old  chap,  life  is  made  of  ever  so  many  partings 


X  welded  together,  as  I  may  say,  and  one  man’s  a  black¬ 
smith,  and  one’s  a  whitesmith,  and  one’s  a  goldsmith,  and 
one’s  a  coppersmith.  Diwisions  among  such  must  come,  and 
must  be  met  as  they  come.  If  there’s  been  any  fault  at  all  to¬ 
day,  it’s  mine.  You  and  me  is  not  two  figures  to  be  together 
in  London ;  nor  yet  anywheres  else  but  what  is  private,  and 
beknown,  and  understood  among  friends.  It  ain’t  that  I  am 
proud,  but  that  I  want  to  be  right,  as  you  shall  never  see  me 
no  more  in  these  clothes.  I’m  wrong  in  these  clothes.  I’m 
wrong  out  of  the  forge,  the  kitchen,  or  off  th’  meshes.  You 


PROMISCUOUS. 


417 


won’t  find  half  so  much  fault  in  me  if  you  think  of  me  in  my 
forge  dress,  with  my  hammer  in  my  hand,  or  even  my  pipe. 
You  won’t  find  half  so  much  fault  in  me  if,  supposing  as  you 
should  ever  wish  to  see  me,  you  come  and  put  your  head  in  at 
the  forge  window  and  see  Joe  the  blacksmith,  there,  at  the  old 
anvil,  in  the  old  burnt  apron,  sticking  to  the  old  work.  I’m 
awful  dull,  but  I  hope  I’ve  beat  out  something  nigh  the  rights 
of  this  at  last.  And  so  God  bless  you,  dear  old  Pip,  old  chap, 
God  bless  you  !  ” 

I  had  not  been  mistaken  in  my  fancy  that  there  was  a  simple 
dignity  in  him.  The  fashion  of  his  dress  could  no  more  come 
in  its  way  when  he  spoke  these  words,  than  it  could  come  in 
its  way  in  Heaven.  He  touched  me  gently  on  the  forehead 
and  went  out.  As  soon  as  I  could  recover  myself  sufficiently, 
I  hurried  out  after  him  and  looked  for  him  in  the  neighboring 
streets  ;  but  he  was  gone. 

18* 


418 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS, 
TOGETHER  WITH  INCIDENTS 
IN  AMERICA. 


o 


CHAPTER  IX 


FROM  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 


N  American  gentleman  in  the  after-cabin,  who  had  been 


J~\.  wrapped  up  in  fur  and  oil-skin  the  whole  passage,  un¬ 
expectedly  appeared  in  a  very  shiny,  tall,  black  hat,  and  con¬ 
stantly  overhauled  a  very  little  valise  of  pale  leather,  which 
contained  his  clothes,  linen,  brushes,  shaving  apparatus,  books, 
trinkets,  and  other  baggage.  He  likewise  stuck  his  hands  deep 
into  his  pockets,  and  walked  the  deck  with  his  nostrils  dilated, 
as  already  inhaling  the  air  of  Freedom  which  carries  death  to 
all  tyrants,  and  can  never  (under  any  circumstances  worth 
mentioning)  be  breathed  by  slaves.  An  English  gentleman 
who  was  strongly  suspected  of  having  run  away  from  a  bank, 
with  something  in  his  possession  belonging  to  its  strong-box 
besides  the  key,  grew  eloquent  upon  the  subject  of  the  rights 
of  man,  and  hummed  the  Marseillaise  Hymn  constantly.  In  a 
word,  one  great  sensation  pervaded  the  whole  ship,  and  the  soil 
of  America  lay  close  before  them  :  so  close  at  last,  that,  upon 
a  certain  starlight  night,  they  took  a  pilot  on  board,  and  within 
a  few  hours  afterwards  lay  to  until  the  morning,  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  a  steam-boat  in  which  the  passengers  were  to  be  con¬ 
veyed  ashore. 

Off  she  came,  soon  after  it  was  light  next  morning,  and  lying 
alongside  an  hour  or  more — during  which  period  her  very  fire¬ 
men  were  objects  of  hardly  less  interest  and  curiosity,  than  if 
they  had  been  so  many  angels,  good  or  bad — took  all  her  liv- 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


419 


ing  freight  aboard.  Among  them,  Mark,  who  still  had  his  friend 
and  her  three  children  under  his  close  protection  ;  and  Martin, 
who  had  once  more  dressed  himself  in  his  usual  attire,  but  wore 
a  soiled,  old  cloak  above  his  ordinary  clothes,  until  such  time 
as  he  should  separate  forever  from  his  late  companions. 

The  steamer — which,  with  its  machinery  on  deck,  looked,  as 
it  worked  its  long  slim  legs,  like  some  enormously  magnified 
insect  or  antediluvian  monster — dashed  at  great  speed  up  a 
beautiful  bay ;  and  presently  they  saw  some  heights,  and 
islands,  and  a  long,  flat,  straggling  city. 

“And  this,”  said  Mr.  Tapley,  looking  far  ahead,  “is  the 
Land  of  Liberty,  is  it  ?  Very  well.  I’m  agreeable.  Any  land 
will  do  for  me,  after  so  much  water  !  ” 

ARTIN  was  not  long  in  determining  within  himself  that 


IV JL  this  must  be  Colonel  Diver’s  son;  the  hope  of  the 
family,  and  future  mainspring  of  the  Rowdy  Journal.  Indeed 
he  had  begun  to  say  that  he  presumed  this  was  the  colonel’s 
little  boy,  and  that  it  was  very  pleasant  to  see  him  playing  at 
Editor  in  all  the  guilelessness  of  childhood,  when  the  colonel 
proudly  interposed  and  said  : 

“My  War  Correspondent,  sir.  Mr.  Jefferson  Brick  !” 

Martin  could  not  help  starting  at  this  unexpected  announce¬ 
ment,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  irretrievable  mistake  he  had 
nearly  made. 

Mr.  Brick  seemed  pleased  with  the  sensation  he  produced 
upon  the  stranger,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  with  an  air  of 
patronage  designed  to  reassure  him,  and  to  let  him  know  that 
there  was  no  occasion  to  be  frightened,  for  he  (Brick)  wouldn’t 
hurt  him. 

“You  have  heard  of  Jefferson  Brick,  I  see,  sir,”  quoth  the 
colonel,  with  a  smile.  “England  has  heard  of  Jefferson  Brick. 
Europe  has  heard  of  Jefferson  Brick.  Let  me  see.  When  did 
you  leave  England,  sir  ?  ” 

“  Five  weeks  ago,”  said  Martin. 

“  Five  weeks  ago,”  repeated  the  colonel,  thoughtfully,  as  he 


420 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


took  his  seat  upon  the  table,  and  swung  his  legs.  “  Now  let 
me  ask  you,  sir,  which  of  Mr.  Brick’s  articles  had  become  at 
that  time  the  most  obnoxious  to  the  British  Parliament  and  the 
Court  of  Saint  James’s  ?  ” 

“  Upon  my  word,”  said  Martin,  “  I — ■” 

“  I  have  reason  to  know,  sir,”  interrupted  the  colonel,  “  that 
the  aristocratic  circles  of  your  country  quail  before  the  name 
of  Jefferson  Brick.  I  should  like  to  be  informed,  sir,  from  your 
lips,  which  of  his  sentiments  has  struck  the  deadliest  blow — ” 

“  At  the  hundred  heads  of  the  Hydra  of  Corruption  now 
grovelling  in  the  dust  beneath  the  lance  of  Reason,  and  spout¬ 
ing  up  to  the  universal  arch  above  us,  its  sanguinary  gore,” 
said  Mr.  Brick,  putting  on  a  little  blue  cloth  cap  with  a  glazed 
front,  and  quoting  his  last  article. 

“  The  libation  of  freedom,  Brick,”  hinted  the  colonel. 

“  Must  sometimes  be  quaffed  in  blood,  colonel,”  cried  Brick. 
And  when  he  said  “blood,”  he  gave  the  great  pair  of  scissors 
a  sharp  snap,  as  if  they  said  blood  too,  and  were  quite  of  his 
opinion. 

This  done  they  both  looked  at  Martin,  pausing  for  a  reply. 

“  Upon  my  life,”  said  Martin,  who  had  by  this  time  quite  re¬ 
covered  his  usual  coolness,  “  I  can’t  give  you  any  satisfactory 
information  about  it ;  for  the  truth  is  that  I — ” 

“  Stop  !  ”  cried  the  colonel,  glancing  sternly  at  his  war  cor¬ 
respondent,  and  giving  his  head  one  shake  after  every  sentence. 
“  That  you  never  heard  of  Jefferson  Brick,  sir.  That  you 
never  read  Jefferson  Brick,  sir.  That  you  never  saw  the 
Rowdy  Journal,  sir.  That  you  never  knew,  sir,  of  its  mighty 
influence  upon  the  cabinets  of  Eu — rope.  Yes?” 

“  That’s  what  I  was  about  to  observe,  certainly,”  said  Martin. 

“Keep  cool,  Jefferson,”  said  the  colonel  gravely.  “Don’t 
bust !  oh  you  Europeans  !  Alter  that,  let’s  have  a  glass  of 
wine  !  ”  So  saying,  he  got  down  from  the  table,  and  produced, 
from  a  basket  outside  the  door,  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and 
three  glasses. 

“  Mr.  Jefferson  Brick,  sir,”  said  the  colonel,  filling  Martin’s 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


42  I 


glass  and  his  own,  and  pushing  the  bottle  to  that  gentleman, 
“will  give  us  a  sentiment.” 

“Well,  sir!”  cried  the  war  correspondent,  “since  you  have 
concluded  to  call  upon  me,  I  will  respond.  I  will  give  you, 
sir,  The  Rowdy  Journal  and  its  brethren ;  the  well  of  Truth, 
whose  waters  are  black  from  being  composed  of  printers’  ink, 
but  are  quite  clear  enough  for  my  country  to  behold  the  shadow 
of  her  Destiny  reflected  in.” 

“  Hear,  hear  !  ”  cried  the  colonel,  with  great  complacency. 
“  There  are  flowery  components,  sir,  in  the  language  of  my 
friend  ?  ” 

u  TS  the  major  in-doors  ?  ”  inquired  the  colonel,  as  he  entered. 

X  “  Is  it  the  master,  sir  ?”  returned  the  girl,  with  a  hesi¬ 
tation  which  seemed  to  imply  that  they  were  rather  flush  of 
majors  in  that  establishment. 

“  The  master  !  ”  said  Colonel  Diver,  stopping  short  and  look¬ 
ing  round  at  his  war  correspondent. 

“Oh!  The  depressing  institutions  of  that  British  empire, 
colonel !  ”  said  Jefferson  Brick.  “  M  aster  !  ” 

“  What’s  the. matter  with  the  word  ?  ”  asked  Martin. 

“  I  should  hope  it  was  never  heard  in  our  country,  sir;  that’s 
all,”  said  Jefferson  Brick  :  “  except  when  it  is  used  by  some 
degraded  Help,  as  new  to  the  blessings  of  our  form  of  govern¬ 
ment,  as  this  Help  is.  There  are  no  masters  here.” 

“  All  ‘  owners,’  are  they  ?  ”  said  Martin. 

Mr.  Jefferson  Brick  followed  in  the  Rowdy  Journal’s  footsteps 
without  returning  any  answer.  Martin  took  the  same  course, 
thinking  as  he  went,  that  perhaps  the  free  and  independent  cit¬ 
izens,  who  in  their  moral  elevation  owned  the  colonel  for  their 
master,  might  render  better  homage  to  the  goddess,  Liberty,  in 
nightly  dreams  upon  the  oven  of  a  Russian  Serf. 

u  OU  have  come  to  visit  our  country,  sir,  at  a  season  of 
1  great  commercial  depression,”  said  the  major. 

“  At  an  alarming  crisis,”  said  the  colonel. 


422 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“At  a  period  of  unprecedented  stagnation/’  said  Mr.  Jeffer¬ 
son  Brick. 

“I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,”  returned  Martin.  “It’s  not 
likely  to  last,  I  hope  ?  ” 

Martin  knew  nothing  about  America,  or  he  would  have 
known  perfectly  well  that  if  its  individual  citizens,  to  a  man, 
are  to  be  believed,  it  always  is.  depressed,  and  always  is  stag¬ 
nated,  and  always  is  at  an  alarming  crisis,  and  never  was 
otherwise  ;  though  as  a  body  they  are  ready  to  make  oath  upon 
the  Evangelists  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  that  it  is  the 
most  thriving  and  prosperous  of  all  countries  on  the  habitable 
globe. 

“  It’s  not  likely  to  last,  I  hope  ?  ”  said  Martin. 

“Well  !  ”  returned  the  major,  “I  expect  we  shall  get  along 
somehow,  and  come  right  in  the  end.” 

“We  are  an  elastic  country,”  said  the  Rowdy  Journal. 

“We  are  a  young  lion,”  said  Mr.  Jefferson  Brick. 

“We  have  revivifying  and  vigorous  principles  within  our¬ 
selves,”  observed  the  major.  “  Shall  we  drink  a  bitter  afore 
dinner,  colonel?” 

HEN  the  major  rose  from  his  rocking-chair  before  the 


stove  and  so  disturbed  the  hot  air  and  balmy  whiff  of 


soup  which  fanned  their  brows,  the  odor  of  stale  tobacco  be¬ 
came  so  decidedly  prevalent  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  its  pro¬ 
ceeding  mainly  from  that  gentleman’s  attire.  Indeed,  as 
Martin  walked  behind  him  to  the  bar-room,  he  could  not  help 
thinking  that  the  great  square  major,  in  his  listlessness  and 
languor,  looked  very  much  like  a  stale  weed  himself:  such  as 
might  be  hoed  out  of  the  public  garden,  with  great  advantage 
to  the  decent  growth  of  that  preserve,  and  tossed  on  some  con¬ 
genial  dunghill. 


WHEN  the  colonel  had  finished  his  dinner,  which  event 
took  place  while  Martin,  who  had  sent  his  plate  for 
some  turkey,  was  waiting  to  begin,  he  asked  him  what  he 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


423 


thought  of  the  boarders,  who  were  from  all  parts  of  the  Union, 
and  whether  he  would  like  to  know  any  particulars  concerning 

them. 

“Pray,”  said  Martin,  “who  is  that  sickly  little  girl  opposite, 
with  the  tight  round  eyes?  I  don’t  see  anybody  here,  who 
looks  like  her  mother,  or  who  seems  to  have  charge  of  her.” 

“  Do  you  mean  the  matron  in  blue,  sir  ?  ”  asked  the  colonel, 
with  emphasis.  “  That  is  Mrs.  Jefferson  Brick,  sir.” 

“No,  no,”  said  Martin,  “I  mean  the  little  girl,  like  a  doll; 
directly  opposite.” 

“Well,  sir!”  cried  the  colonel.  “  That  is  Mrs.  Jefferson 
Brick.” 

Martin  glanced  at  the  colonel’s  face,  but  he  was  quite  seri¬ 
ous. 

“  Bless  my  soul !  I  suppose  there  will  be  a  young  Brick 

then,  one  of  these  days  ?  ”  said  Martin. 

“  There  are  two  young  Bricks  already,  sir,”  returned  the 
colonel. 

The  matron  looked  so  uncommonly  like  a  child  herself,  that 
Martin  could  not  help  saying  as  much.  “Yes,  sir,”  returned 
the  colonel,  „  “  but  some  institutions  develop  human  natur : 
others  re — tard  it.” 

“Jefferson  Brick,”  he  observed,  after  a  short  silence,  in 
commendation  of  his  correspondent,  “  is  one  of  the  most  re¬ 
markable  men  in  our  country,  sir  !  ” 

IT  was  rather  barren  of  interest,  to  say  the  truth ;  and  the 
greater  part  of  it  may  be  summed  up  in  one  word.  Dol¬ 
lars.  All  their  cares,  hopes,  joys,  affections,  virtues,  and  as¬ 
sociations,  seemed  to  be  melted  down  into  dollars.  What¬ 
ever  the  chance  contributions  that  fell  into  the  slow  caldron 
of  their  talk,  they  made  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  with  dollars. 
Men  were  weighed  by  their  dollars,  measures  gauged  by  their 
dollars ;  life  was  auctioneered,  appraised,  put  up,  and  knocked 
down  for  its  dollars.  The  next  respectable  thing  to  dollars  was 


424 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


any  venture  having  their  attainment  for  its  end.  The  more  of 
that  worthless  ballast,  honor  and  fair-dealing,  which  any  man 
cast  overboard  from  the  ship  of  his  Good  Name  and  Good 
Intent,  the  more  ample  stowage-room  he  had  for  dollars. 
Make  commerce  one  huge  lie  and  mighty  theft.  Deface  the 
banner  of  the  nation  for  an  idle  rag ;  pollute  it  star  by  star ; 
and  cut  out  stripe  by  stripe  as  from  the  arm  of  a  degraded 
soldier.  Do  anything  for  dollars  !  What  is  a  Hag  to  them  ! 

One  who  rides  at  all  hazards  of  limb  and  life  in  the  chase  of 
a  fox,  will  prefer  to  ride  recklessly  at  most  times.  So  it  was 
with  these  gentlemen.  He  was  the  greatest  patriot,  in  their 
eyes,  who  brawled  the  loudest,  and  who  cared  the  least  for 
decency.  He  was  their  champion,  who  in  the  brutal  fury  of 
his  own  pursuit,  could  cast  no  stigma  upon  them,  for  the  hot 
knavery  of  theirs.  Thus,  Martin  learned  in  the  live  minutes’ 
-straggling  talk  about  the  stove,  that  to  carry  pistols  into  legis¬ 
lative  assemblies,  and  swords  in  sticks,  and  other  such  peace¬ 
ful  toys ;  to  seize  opponents  by  the  throat,  as  dogs  or  rats 
might  do ;  to  bluster,  bully,  and  overbear  by  personal  assail- 
ment ;  were  glowing  deeds.  Not  thrusts  and  stabs  at  Free¬ 
dom,  striking  far  deeper  into  her  House  of  Life  than  any 
sultan’s  scimetar  could  reach ;  but  rare  incense  on  her  altars, 
having  a  grateful  scent  in  patriotic  nostrils,  and  curling  upward 
to  the  seventh  heaven  of  Fame. 

66  A  ND  may  I  ask,”  said  Martin,  glancing,  but  not  with  any 
l  \  displeasure,  from  Mark  to  the  negro,  “who  this  gentle¬ 
man  is  ?  Another  friend  of  yours  !  ” 

“  Why,  sir,”  returned  Mark,  taking  him  aside,  and  speaking 
confidentially  in  his  ear,  “he’s  a  man  of  color,  sir  !” 

“  Do  you  take  me  for  a  blind  man,”  asked  Martin,  some¬ 
what  impatiently,  “  that  you  think  it  necessary  to  tell  me  that, 
when  his  face  is  the  blackest  that  ever  was  seen  ?  ” 

“No,  no  ;  when  I  say  a  man  of  color,”  returned  Mark,  “I 
mean  that  he’s  been  one  of  them  as  there’s  picters  of  in  the 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


425 


shops.  A  man  and  a  brother,  you  know,  sir;”  said  Mr.  Tapley, 
favoring  his  master  with  a  significant  indication  of  the  figure  so 
often  represented  in  tracts  and  cheap  prints. 

“  A  slave  !  ”  asked  Martin,  in  a  whisper. 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Mark,  in  the  same  tone.  “  Nothing  else.  A 
slave.  Why,  when  that  there  man  was  young — don’t  look  at 
him,  while  I’m  a-telling  it — he  was  shot  in  the  leg ;  gashed  in 
the  arm ;  scored  in  his  live  limbs,  like  crimped  fish ;  beaten 
out  of  shape  ;  had  his  neck  galled  with  an  iron  collar,  and  wore 
iron  rings  upon  his  wrists  and  ankles.  The  marks  are  on  him 
to  this  day.  When  I  was  having  my  dinner  just  now,  he 
stripped  off  his  coat,  and  took  away  my  appetite.” 

66  T  WISH  you  would  pull  off  my  boots  for  me,”  said  Martin, 

It  dropping  into  one  of  the  chairs.  “I  am  quite  knocked 
up.  'Dead  beat,  Mark.” 

“  You  wont  say  that  to-morrow  morning,  sir,”  returned  Mr. 
Tapley;  “nor  even  to-night,  sir,  when  you’ve  made  a  trial  of 
this.”  With  which  he  produced  a  very  large  tumbler,  piled  up 
to  the  brim  with  little  blocks  of  clear  transparent  ice,  through 
which  one  or  two  thin  slices  of  lemon,  and  a  golden  liquid  of 
delicious  appearance,  appealed  from  the  still  depths  below,  to 
the  loving  eye  of  the  spectator. 

“What  do  you  call  this?”  said  Martin. 

But  Mr.  Tapley  made  no  answer  :  merely  plunging  a  reed 
into  the  mixture — which  caused  a  pleasant  commotion  among 
the  pieces  of  ice — and  signifying  by  an  expressive  gesture  that 
it  was  to  be  pumped  up  through  that  agency  by  the  enraptured 
drinker. 

Martin  took  the  glass,  with  an  astonished  look ;  applied  his 
lips  to  the  reed ;  and  cast  up  his  eyes  once  in  ecstasy.  He 
paused  no  more  until  the  goblet  was  drained  to  the  last  drop. 

“  There,  sir,”  said  Mark,  taking  it  from  him  with  a  triumph¬ 
ant  face ;  “  if  ever  you  should  happen  to  be  dead  beat  again, 
when  I  ain’t  in  the  way,  all  you’ve  got  to  do  is,  to  ask  the 
nearest  man  to  go  and  fetch  a  cobbler.” 


426 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“To  go  and  fetch  a  cobbler ?”  repeated  Martin. 

“  This  wonderful  invention,  sir,”  said  Mark,  tenderly  patting 
the  empty  glass,  “  is  called  a  cobbler.  Sherry  cobbler  when 
you  name  it  long ;  cobbler,  when  you  name  it  short.  Now 
you’re  equal  to  having  your  boots  taken  off,  and  are,  in  every 
particular  worth  mentioning,  another  man.” 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  solemn  preface,  he  brought 
the  boot-jack. 

“  Mind  !  I  am  not  going  to  relapse,  Mark,”  said  Martin ; 
“but,  good  Heaven,  if  we  should  be  left  in  some  wild  part  of 
this  country  without  goods  or  money  !  ” 

“Well,  sir!”  replied  the  imperturbable  Tapley;  “from  what 
we’ve  seen  already,  I  don’t  know  whether,  under  those  circum¬ 
stances,  we  shouldn’t  do  better  in  the  wild  parts  than  in  the 
tame  ones.” 


OW  the  wheels  clank  and  rattle,  and  the  tramroad 


1  JL  shakes  as  the  train  rushes  on !  And  now  the  engine 
yells,  as  it  were  lashed  and  tortured  like  a  living  laborer,  and 
writhed  in  agony.  A  poor  fancy  ;  for  steel  and  iron  are  of  in¬ 
finitely  greater  account,  in  this  commonwealth,  than  flesh  and 
blood.  If  the  cunning  work  of  man  be  urged  beyond  its  power 
of  endurance,  it  has  within  it  the  elements  of  its  own  revenge ; 
whereas  the  wretched  mechanism  of  the  Divine  Hand  is  dan¬ 
gerous  with  no  such  property,  but  may  be  tampered  with,  and 
crushed,  and  broken,  at  the  driver’s  pleasure.  Look  at  that 
engine  !  It  shall  cost  a  man  more  dollars  in  the  way  of  pen¬ 
alty  and  fine,  and  satisfaction  of  the  outraged  law,  to  deface  in 
wantonness  that  senseless  mass  of  metal,  than  to  take  the  lives 
of  twenty  human  creatures.  Thus  the  stars  wink  upon  the 
bloody  stripes ;  and  Liberty  pulls  down  her  cap  upon  her  eyes, 
and  owns  Oppression  in  its  vilest  aspect,  for  her  sister. 

The  engine-driver  of  the  train  whose  noise  awoke  us  to  the 
present  chapter,  was  certainly  troubled  with  no  such  reflec¬ 
tions  as  these  ;  nor  is  it  very  probable  that  his  mind  was  dis- 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS.  427 

turbed  by  any  reflections  at  all.  He  leaned  with  folded  arms 
and  crossed  legs  against  the  side  of  the  carriage,  smoking ;  and, 
except  when  he  expressed,  by  a  grunt  as  short  as  his  pipe,  his 
approval  of  some  particularly  dexterous  aim  on  the  part  of  his 
colleague,  the  fireman,  who  beguiled  his  leisure  by  throwing  logs 
of  wood  from  the  tender  at  the  numerous  stray  cattle  on  the 
line,  he  preserved  a  composure  so  immovable,  and  an  indiffer¬ 
ence  so  complete,  that  if  the  locomotive  had  been  a  sucking- 
pig,  he  could  not  have  been  more  perfectly  indifferent  to  its 
doings.  Notwithstanding  the  tranquil  state  of  this  officer,  and 
his  unbroken  peace  of  mind,  the  train  was  proceeding  with  tol¬ 
erable  rapidity;  and  the  rails  being  but  poorly  laid,  the  jolts 
and  bumps  it  met  with  in  its  progress  were  neither  slight  nor 
few. 

THEY  came  to  their  journey’s  end  late  in  the  evening. 

Close  to  the  railway  was  an  immense  white  edifice,  like 
an  ugly  hospital,  on  which  was  painted  “  National  Hotel.” 
There  was  a  wooden  gallery  or  verandah  in  front,  in  which  it 
was  rather  startling,  when  the  train  stopped,  to  behold  a  great 
many  pairs  of  boots  and  shoes,  and  the  smoke  of  a  great  many 
cigars,  but  no  other  evidences  of  human  habitation.  By  slow 
degrees  however,  some  heads  and  shoulders  appeared,  and  con¬ 
necting  themselves  with  the  boots  and  shoes,  led  to  the  discov¬ 
ery  that  certain  gentlemen  boarders,  who  had  a  fancy  for 
putting  their  heels  where  the  gentlemen  boarders  in  other  coun¬ 
tries  usually  put  their  heads,  were  enjoying  themselves  after 
their  own  manner  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 


IT  was  a  small  place  :  something  like  a  turnpike.  But  a 
great  deal  of  land  may  be  got  into  a  dice-box,  and  why  may 
not  a  whole  territory  be  bargained  for  in  a  shed  ?  It  was  but  a 
temporary  office  too;  for  the  Edeners  were  “ going”  to  build  a 
superb  establishment  for  the  transaction  of  their  business,  and 


428 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


had  already  got  so  far  as  to  mark  out  the  site.  Which  is  a 
great  way  in  America.  The  office-door  was  wide  open,  and  in 
the  doorway  was  the  agent :  no  doubt  a  tremendous  fellow  to 
get  through  his  work,  for  he  seemed  to  have  no  arrears,  but  was 
swinging  backwards  and  forwards  in  a  rocking-chair,  with  one 
of  his  legs  planted  high  up  against  the  door-post,  and  the  other 
doubled  up  under  him,  as  if  he  were  hatching  his  foot. 

He  was  a  gaunt  man  in  a  huge  straw  hat,  and  a  coat  of  green 
stuff.  The  weather  being  hot,  he  had  no  cravat,  and  wore  his 
shirt  collar  wide  open  ;  so  that  every  time  he  spoke  something 
was  seen  to  twitch  and  jerk  up  in  his  throat,  like  the  little  ham¬ 
mers  in  a  harpsichord  when  the  notes  are  struck.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  Truth  feebly  endeavoring  to  leap  .to  his  lips.  If  so,  it 
never  reached  them. 

Two  gray  eyes  lurked  deep  within  this  agent’s  head,  but 
one  of  them  had  no  sight  in  it,  and  stood  stock-still.  With 
that  side  of  his  face  he  seemed  to  listen  to  what  the  other  side 
was  doing.  Thus  each  profile  had  a  distinct  expression ;  and 
when  the  movable  side  was  most  in  action,  the  rigid  one  was  in 
its  coldest  state  of  watchfulness.  It  was  like  turning  the  man 
inside  out,  to  pass  to  that  view  of  his  features  in  his  liveliest 
mood,  and  see  how  calculating  and  intent  they  were. 

Each  long  black  hair  upon  his  head  hung  down  as  straight 
as  any  plummet  line  ;  but  rumpled  tufts  were  on  the  arches  of 
his  eyes,  as  if  the  crow  whose  foot  was  deeply  printed  in  the 
corners,  had  pecked  and  torn  them  in  a  savage  recognition  of 
his  kindred  nature  as  a  bird  of  prey. 

/"ELL,  sir!”  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with  Martin, 
V  V  “here  is  a  spectacle  calc’lated  to  make  the  British 
Lion  put  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  howl  with  anguish,  I 
expect ! ” 

Martin  certainly  thought  it  possible  that  the  British  Lion 
might  have  been  rather  out  of  his  element  in  that  Ark  ;  but  he 
kept  the  idea  to  himself.  The  General  was  then  voted  to  the 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS.  429 

chair,  on  the  motion  of  a  pallid  lad  of  the  Jefferson  Brick 
school :  who  forthwith  set  in  for  a  high-spiced  speech,  with  a 
good  deal  about  hearths  and  homes  in  it  and  un-riveting  the 
chains  of  Tyranny. 

Oh  but  it  was  a  clincher  for  the  British  Lion,  it  was  !  The 
indignation  of  the  glowing  young  Columbian  knew  no  bounds. 
If  he  could  only  have  been  one  of  his  own  forefathers,  he  said, 
wouldn’t  he  have  peppered  that  same  lion,  and  been  to  him 
as  another  Brute  Tamer  with  a  wire  whip,  teaching  him  lessons 
not  easily  forgotten.  “  Lion  !  (cried  the  young  Columbian) 
where  is  he?  Who  is  he?  What  is  he?  Show  him  to  me. 
Let  me  have  him  here.  Here  !”  said  the  young  Columbian, 
in  a  wrestling  attitude,  “upon  this  sacred  altar.  Here  !.”  cried 
the  young  Columbian,  idealizing  the  dining-table,  “  upon  an¬ 
cestral  ashes,  cemented  with  the  glorious  blood  poured  out  like 
water  on  our  native  plains  of  Chickabiddy  Lick  !  Bring  forth 
that  Lion  !  ”  said  the  young  Columbian.  “Alone,  I, dare  him  ! 
I  taunt  that  Lion.  I  tell  that  Lion,  that  Freedom’s  hand  once 
twisted  in  his  mane,  he  rolls  a  corse  before  me,  and  the  Eagles 
of  the  Great  Republic  laugh  ha,  ha  !  ” 

When  it  was  found  that  the  Lion  didn’t  come,  but  kept  out 
of  the  way ;  that  the  young  Columbian  stood  there,  with 
folded  arms,  alone  in  his  glory ;  and  consequently  that  the 
Eagles  were  no  doubt  laughing  wildly  on  the  mountain  tops ; 
such  cheers  arose  as  might  have  shaken  the  hands  upon  the 
Horse-Guards  clock,  and  changed  the  very  mean  time  of  the 
day  in  England’s  capital. 

PUNCTUALLY,  as  the  hour  struck,  Captain  Kedgick  re¬ 
turned  to  hand  him  to  the  room  of  state ;  and  he  had  no 
sooner  got  him  safe  there,  than  he  bawled  down  the  staircase 
to  his  fellow-citizens  below,  that  Mr.  Chuzzlewit  was  “  receiv¬ 
ing.” 

Up  they  came  with  a  rush.  Up  they  came  until  the  room 
was  full,  and,  through  the  open  door,  a  dismal  perspective  of 


43° 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


more  to  come,  was  shown  upon  the  stairs.  One  after  another, 
one  after  another,  dozen  after  dozen,  score  after  score,  more, 
more,  more,  up  they  came:  all  shaking  hands  with  Martin. 
Such  varieties  of  hands,  the  thick,  the  thin,  the  short,  the  long, 
the  fat,  the  lean,  the  coarse,  the  fine ;  such  differences  of  tem¬ 
perature,  the  hot,  the  cold,  the  dry,  the  moist,  the  flabby ; 
such  diversities  of  grasp,  the  tight,  the  loose,  the  short-lived, 
and  the  lingering !  Still  up,  up,  up,  more,  more,  more  :  and 
ever  and  anon  the  Captain’s  voice  was  heard  above  the  crowd  : 
“There’s  m'ore  below  !  there’s  more  below.  Now,  gentlemen, 
you  that  have  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Chuzzlewit,  will  you 
clear,  gentlemen  ?  Will  you  clear  ?  Will  you  be  so  good  as 
clear,  gentlemen,  and  make  a  little  room  for  more?” 

Regardless  of  the  Captain’s  cries,  they  didn’t  clear  at  all, 
but  stood  there,  bolt  upright  and  staring.  Two  gentlemen 
connected  with  the  Watertoast  Gazette  had  come  express  to 
get  the  matter  for  an  article  on  Martin.  They  had  agreed  to 
divide  the  labor.  One  of  them  took  him  below  the  waistcoat ; 
one  above.  Each  stood  directly  in  front  of  his  subject  with  his 
head  a  little  on  one  side,  intent  on  his  department.  If  Martin 
put  one  boot  before  the  other,  the  lower  gentleman  was  down 
upon  him ;  he  rubbed  a  pimple  on  his  nose,  and  the  upper 
gentleman  booked  it.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  and 
the  same  gentleman  was  on  one  knee  before  him,  looking  in  at 
his  teeth,  with  the  nice  scrutiny  of  a  dentist.  Amateurs  in  the 
physiognomical  and  phrenological  sciences  roved  about  him  with 
watchful  eyes  and  itching  fingers,  and  sometimes  one,  more 
daring  than  the  rest,  made  a  mad  grasp  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  vanished  in  the  crowd.  They  had  him  in  all  points 
of  view :  in  front,  in  profile,  three-quarter  face,  and  behind. 
Those  who  were  not  professional  or  scientific,  audibly  ex¬ 
changed  opinions  on  his  looks.  New  lights  shone  in  upon 
him,  in  respect  of  his  nose.  Contradictory  rumors  were 
abroad  on  the  subject  of  his  hair.  And  still  the  Captain’s 
voice  was  heard — so  stifled  by  the  concourse,  that  he  seemed 
to  speak  from  underneath  a  feather-bed,  exclaiming,  “  Gentle- 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


43 1 


men,  you  that  have  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Chuzzlewit,  will 
you  clear?” 

Even  when  they  began  to  clear,  it  was  no  better  :  for  then  a 
stream  of  gentlemen,  every  one  with  a  lady  on  each  arm  (ex¬ 
actly  like  the  chorus  to  the  National  Anthem  when  Royalty 
goes  in  state  to  the  play),  came  gliding  in  :  every  new  group 
fresher  than  the  last,  and  bent  on  staying  to  the  latest  moment. 
If  they  spoke  to  him,  which  was  not  often,  they  invariably  asked 
the  same  questions,  in  the  same  tone  :  with  no  more  remorse, 
or  delicacy,  or  consideration,  than  if  he  had  been  a  figure  of 
stone,  purchased,  and  paid  for,  and  set  up  there,  for  their  de¬ 
light.  Even  when,  in  the  slow  course  of  time,  these  died  off, 
it  was  as  bad  as  ever,  if  not  worse  ;  for  then  the  boys  grew 
bold,  and  came  in  as  a  class  of  themselves,  and  did  everything 
that  the  grown-up  people  had  done.  Uncouth  stragglers  too, 
appeared;  men  of  a  ghostly  kind,  who  being  in,  didn’t  know 
how  to  get  out  again  :  insomuch  that  one  silent  gentleman 
with  glazed  and  fishy  eyes,  and  only  one  button  on  his  waist¬ 
coat  (which  was  a  very  large  metal  one,  and  shone  prodigiously), 
got  behind  the  door,  and  stood  there,  like  a  clock,  long  after 
everybody  else  was  gone. 

MARTIN  handed  her  to  a  chair.  Her  first  words  arrested 
him  before  he  could  get  back  to  his  own  seat. 

“  Pray,  sir  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Hominy,  “  where  do  you  hail  from?” 
“I  am  afraid  I  am  dull  o'f  comprehension,”  answered  Martin, 
“being  extremely  tired ;  but,  upon  my  word,  I  don’t  under¬ 
stand  you.” 

Mrs.  Hominy  shook  her  head  with  a  melancholy  smile  that 
said,  not  inexpressively,  “They  corrupt  even  the  language  in 
that  old  country  !  ”  and  added  then,  as  coming  down  a  step  or 
two  to  meet  his  low  capacity,  “  Where  was  you  rose  ?  ” 

“  Oh  !  ”  said  Martin,  “  I  was  born  in  Kent.” 

“And  how  do  you  like  our  country,  sir?”  asked  Mrs.  Hom¬ 
iny. 


4  32 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


u  Very  much  indeed,”  said  Martin,  half  asleep.  u  At  least — 
that  is — pretty  well,  ma’am.” 

“  Most  strangers — and  particularly  Britishers — are  much  sur¬ 
prised  by  what  they  see  in  the  U-nited  States,”  remarked  Mrs. 
Hominy. 

“They  have  excellent  reason  to  be  so,  ma’am,”  said  Martin. 
“  I  never  was  so  much  surprised  in  all  my  life.” 

“  Our  institutions  make  our  people  smart  much,  sir,”  Mrs. 
Hominy  remarked. 

“The  most  short-sighted  man  could  see  that  at  a  glance, 
with  his  naked  eye,”  said  Martin. 

Mrs.  Hominy  was  a  philosopher  and  an  authoress,  and  con¬ 
sequently  had  a  pretty  strong  digestion  ;  but  this  coarse,  this 
indecorous  phrase,  was  almost  too  much  for  her.  For  a  gentle¬ 
man  sitting  alone  with  a  lady — although- the  door  was  open  — 
to  talk  about  a  naked  eye  ! 


IVE!”  cried  Martin.  “Yes,  it’s  easy  to  say  live;  but 


if  we  should  happen  not  to  wake  when  rattlesnakes  are 


making  corkscrews  of  themselves  upon  our  beds,  it  may  be  not 
so  easy  to  do  it.” 

“And  that’s  a  fact,”  said  a  voice  so  close  in  his  ear  that  it 
tickled  him.  “That’s  dreadful  true.” 

Martin  looked  round,  and  found  that  a  gentleman,  on  the 
seat  behind,  had  thrust  his  head  between  himself  and  Mark, 
and  sat  with  his  chin  resting  on  the  back  rail  of  their  little  bench 
entertaining  himself  with  their  conversation.  He  was  as  lan¬ 
guid  and  listless  in  his  looks,  as  most  of  the  gentlemen  they  had 
seen ;  his  cheeks  were  so  hollow  that  he  seemed  to  be  always 
sucking  them  in ;  and  the  sun  had  burnt  him,  not  a  wholesome 
red  or  brown,  but  dirty  yellow.  He  had  bright  dark  eyes,  which 
he  kept  half  closed  :  only  peeping  out  of  the  corners,  and  even 
then  'with  a  glance  that  seemed  to  say,  “  Now  you  won’t 
overreach  me ;  you  want  to,  but  you  won’t.”  His  arms 
rested  carelessly  on  his  knees  as  he  leant  forward ;  in  the  palm 
of  his  left  hand,  as  English  rustics  have  their  slice  of  cheese, 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


433 


he  had  a  cake  of  tobacco  ;  in  his  right  a  penknife.  He  struck 
into  the  dialogue  with  as  little  reserve  as  if  he  had  been  speci¬ 
ally  called  in,  days  before,  to  hear  the  arguments  on  both 
sides,  and  favor  them  with  his  opinion  ;  and  he  no  more  con¬ 
templated  or  cared  for  the  possibility  of  their  not  desiring  the 
honor  of  his  acquaintance  or  interference  in  their  private  affairs, 
than  if  he  had  been  a  bear  or  a  buffalo. 

“  That,”  he  repeated,  nodding  condescendingly  to  Martin,  as 
to  an  outer  barbarian  and  foreigner,  “  is  dreadful  true.  Darn 
all  manner  of  vermin.” 

Martin  could  not  help  frowning  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  were 
disposed  to  insinuate  that  the  gentleman  had  unconsciously 
“darned”  himself.  But  remembering  the  wisdom  of  doing  at 
Rome  as  Romans  do,  he  smiled  with  the  pleasantest  expression 
he  could  assume  upon  so  short  a  notice. 

Their  new  friend  said  no  more  just  then,  being  busily  em¬ 
ployed  in  cutting  a  quid  or  plug  from  his  cake  of  tobacco,  and 
whistling  softly  to  himself  the  while.  When  he  had  shaped  it 
to  his  liking,  he  took  out  his  old  plug,  and  deposited  the  same 
on  the  back  of  the  seat  between  Mark  and  Martin,  while  he 
thrust  the  new  one  into  the  hollow  of  his  cheek,  where  it  looked 
like  a  large  walnut,  or  tolerable  pippin.  Finding  it  quite  satis¬ 
factory,  he  struck  the  point  of  his  knife  into  the  old  plug,  and 
holding  it  out  for  their  inspection,  remarked  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  not  lived  in  vain,  that  it  was  “  used  up  consider¬ 
able.”  Then  he  tossed  it  away ;  put  his  knife  into  one  pocket 
and  his  tobacco  into  another  ;  rested  his  chin  upon  the  rail  as 
before;  and  approving  of  the  pattern  on  Martin’s  waistcoat, 
reached  out  his  hand  to  feel  the  texture  of  that  garment. 

“  What  do  you  call  this  now?”  he  asked. 

“Upon  my  word,”  said  Martin,  “I  don’t  know  what  it’s 
called.” 

“  It’ll  cost  a  dollar  or  more  a  yard,  I  reckon  ?  ” 

“I  really  don’t  know.” 

“  In  my  country,”  said  the  gentleman,  “  we  know  the  cost  of 
our  own  pro-duce.” 

19 


434 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


Martin  not  discussing  the  question,  there  was  a  pause. 

“Well !  ”  resumed  their  new  friend,  after  staring  at  them  in¬ 
tently  during  the  whole  interval  of  silence:  “how’s  the  un- 
nat’ral  old  parent  by  this  time  ?  ” 

Mr.  Tapley  regarding  this  inquiry  as  only  another  version  of 
the  impertinent  English  question,  “How’s  your  mother?” 
would  have  resented  it  instantly,  but  for  Martin’s  prompt  inter¬ 
position. 

“You  mean  the  old  country  ?  ”  he  said. 

“  Ah  !  ”  was  the  reply,  “  How’s  she  ?  Progressing  back’ards, 
I  expect,  as  usual  ?  Well!  How’s  Queen  Victoria?  ” 

“  In  good  health,  I  believe,”  said  Martin. 

“  Queen  Victoria  won’t  shake  in  her  royal  shoes  at  all,  when 
she  hears  to-morrow  named,”  observed  the  stranger.  “  No.” 

“  Not  that  I  am  aware  of.  Why  should  she  ?” 

“  She  won’t  be  taken  with  a  cold  chill  when  she  realizes  what 
is  being  done  in  these  diggings,”  said  the  stranger.  “No.” 

“  No,”  said  Martin.  “  I  think  I  could  take  my  oath  of  that.” 

The  strange  gentleman  looked  at  him  as  if  in  pity  for  his 
ignorance  or  prejudice,  and  said  : 

“  Well,  sir,  I  tell  you  this — there  ain’t  a  en-glne  with  its  biler 
bust,  in  God  A’mighty’s  free  U-nited  States,  so  fixed,  and  nip¬ 
ped,  and  frizzled  to  a  most  e-tarnal  smash,  as  that  young  crit¬ 
ter,  in  her  luxurious  location  in  the  Tower  of  London,  will  be, 
when  she  reads  the  next  double-extra  Watertoast  Gazette.” 

Several  other  gentlemen  had  left  their  seats  and  gathered 
round  during  the  foregoing  dialogue.  They  were  highly  de¬ 
lighted  with  this  speech.  One  very  lank  gentleman,  in  a  loose 
limp  white  cravat,  a  long  white  waistcoat,  and  a  black  great¬ 
coat,  who  seemed  to  be  in  authority  among  them,  felt  called 
upon  to  acknowledge  it. 

“  Hem  !  Mr.  La  Layette  Kettle,”  he  said,  taking  off  his 
hat. 

There  was  a  grave  murmur  of  “  Hush  !  ” 

“  Mr.  La  Layette  Kettle  !  Sir  !  ” 

Mr.  Kettle  bowed. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


435 


“  In  the  name  of  this  company,  sir,  and  in  the  name  of  our 
common  country,  and  in  the  name  of  that  righteous  cause  of  holy 
sympathy  in  which  we  are  engaged,  I  thank  you.  I  thank  you, 
sir,  in  the  name  of  the  Watertoast  Sympathizers ;  and  I  thank 
you,  sir,  in  the  name  of  the  Watertoast  Gazette  ;  and  I  thank 
you,  sir,  in  the  name  of  the  star-spangled  banner  of  the  Great 
United  States,  for  your  eloquent  and  categorical  exposition. 
And  if,  sir,”  said  the  speaker,  poking  Martin  with  the  handle 
of  his  umbrella  to  bespeak  his  attention,  for  he  was  listening  to 
a  whisper  from  Mark  ;  u  if,  sir,  in  such  a  place,  and  at  such 
time,  I  might  venture  to  con-clude  with  a  sentiment,  glancing 
— however  slantin’ dicularly — at  the  subject  in  hand,  1  would 
say,  sir,  may  the  British  Lion  have  his  talons  eradicated  by  the 
noble  bill  of  the  American  Eagle,  and  be  taught  to  play  upon 
the  Irish  Harp  and  the  Scotch  Fiddle  that  music  which  is 
breathed  in  every  empty  shell  that  lies  upon  the  shores  of  green 
Co-lumbia  !  ” 

Here  the  lank  gentleman  sat  down  again,  amidst  a  great  sen¬ 
sation,  and  every  one  looked  very  grave. 

R.  CHOLLOP  was,  of  course,  one  of  the  most  re- 


1VI  markable  men  in  the  country ;  but  he  really  was  a 
notorious  person  besides.  He  was  usually  described  by  his 
friends,  in  the  South  and  West,  as  “a  splendid  sample  of  our 
na-tive  raw  material,  sir,”  and  was  much  esteemed  for  his  devo¬ 
tion  to  rational  Liberty ;  for  the  better  propagation  whereof  he 
usually  carried  a  brace  of  revolving  pistols  in  his  coat  pocket, 
with  seven  barrels  a-piece.  He  also  carried,  amongst  other 
trinkets,  a  sword-stick,  which  he  called  his  “Tickler;”  and  a 
great  knife,  which  (for  he  was  a  man  of  a  pleasant  turn  of  hu¬ 
mor)  he  called  “  Ripper,”  in  allusion  to  its  usefulness  as  a 
means  of  ventilating  the  stomach  of  any  adversary  in  a  close 
contest.  He  had  used  these  weapons  with  distinguished  effect 
in  several  instances,  all  duly  chronicled  in  the  newspapers ;  and 
was  greatly  beloved  for  the  gallant  manner  in  which  he  had 


43<> 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


“jobbed  out”  the  eye  of  one  gentleman,  as  he  was  in  the  act 
of  knocking  at  his  own  street-door. 

Mr.  Chollop  was  a  man  of  a  roving  deposition  ;  and,  in  any 
less  advanced  community,  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  vio¬ 
lent  vagabond.  But  his  fine  qualities  being  perfectly  under¬ 
stood  and  appreciated  in  those  regions  where  his  lot  was  cast, 
and  where  he  had  many  kindred  spirits  to  consort  with,  he  may 
be  regarded  as  having  been  born  under  a  fortunate  star,  which 
is  not  always  the  case  with  a  man  so  much  before  the  age  in 
which  lie  lives.  Preferring,  with  a  view  to  the  gratification  of 
his  tickling  and  ripping  fancies,  to  dwell  upon  the  outskirts  of 
society,  and  in  the  more  remote  towns  and  cities,  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  emigrating  from  place  to  place,  and  establishing  in  each 
some  business — usually  a  newspaper — which  he  presently  sold: 
for  the  most  part  closing  the  bargain,  by  challenging,  stabbing, 
pistolling,  or  gouging,  the  new  editor,  before  he  had  quite  taken 
possession  of  the  property. 

He  had  come  to  Eden  on  a  speculation  of  this  kind,  but  had 
abandoned  it,  and  was  about  to  leave.  He  always  introduced 
himself  to  strangers  as  a  worshipper  of  Freedom ;  was  the 
consistent  advocate  of  Lynch  law,  and  slavery ;  and  invariably 
recommended,  both  in  print  and  speech,  the  “  tarring  and 
feathering”  of  any  unpopular  person  who  differed  from  himself. 
He  called  this  “planting  the  standard  of  civilization  in  the 
wilder  gardens  of  My  country.” 

44 TT  .THAT  an  extraordinary  people  you  are  !”  cried  Mar- 
V  V  tin.  “Are  Mr.  Chollop  and  the  class  he  represents 
an  Institution  here  ?  Are  pistols,  with  revolving  barrels,  sword- 
sticks,  bowie-knives,  and  such  things,  Institutions  on  which  you 
pride  yourselves?  Are  bloody  duels,  brutal  combats,  savage  - 
assaults,  shooting  down  and  stabbing  in  the  streets,  your  Insti¬ 
tutions?  Why  1  shall  hear  next,  that  Dishonor  and  Fraud  are 
among  the  Institutions  of  the  great  republic  !  ”  . 

The  moment  the  words  passed  his  lips,  the  Honorable  Elijah 
Bogram  looked  round  again. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


437 


“This  morbid  hatred  of  our  Institutions/’  he  observed,  “is 
quite  a  study  for  the  psychological  observer.  He’s  alludin  to 
Repudiation  now !  ” 

“  Oh  !  You  may  make  anything  an  Institution  if  you  like,” 
said  Martin,  laughing,  “  and  I  confess  you  had  me  there,  for  you 
certainly  have  made  that,  one.  But  the  greater  part  of  these 
things  are  one  Institution  with  us,  and  we  call  it  by  the  generic 
name  of  Old  Bailey  !  ” 

The  bell  being  rung  for  dinner  at  this  moment,  everybody  ran 
away  into  the  cabin,  whither  the  Honorable  Elijah  Pogram  fled 
with  such  precipitation  that  he  forgot  his  umbrella  was  up,  and 
fixed  it  so  tightly  in  the  cabin  door  that  it  could  neither  be  let 
down  nor  got  out.  For  a  minute  or  so  this  accident  created  a 
perfect  rebellion  among  the  hungry  passengers  behind,  who, 
seeing  the  dishes,  and  hearing  the  knives  and  forks  at  work, 
well  knew  what  would  happen  unless  they  got  there  instantly, 
and  were  nearly  mad  ;  while  several  virtuous  citizens  at  the 
table  were  in  deadly  peril  of  choking  themselves  in  their  un¬ 
natural  efforts  to  get  rid  of  all  the  meat  before  these  others 
came. 

^T"X  ^HY,  Cook?  what  are  you  thinking  of  so  steadily?” 
V  V  said  Martin. 

“Why  I  was  a-thinking,  sir,”  returned  Mark,  “  that  if  I  was  a 
painter  and  was  called  upon  to  paint  the  American  Eagle,  how 
should  I  do  it  ?  ” 

“  Paint  it  as  like  an  Eagle  as  you  could,  I  suppose  ?  ” 

“No,”  said  Mark.  “That  wouldn’t  do  for  me,  sir.  I 
should  want  to  draw  it  like  a  Bat,  for  its  short-sightedness ;  like 
a  Bantam,  for  its  bragging;  like  a  Magpie,  for  its  honesty ;  like 
a  Peacock,  for  its  vanity;  like  a  Ostrich,  for  its  putting  its 
head  in  the  mud,  and  thinking  nobody  sees  it — ” 

“And  like  a  Phoenix,  for  its  power  of  springing  from  the 
ashes  of  its  faults  and  vices,  and  soaring  up  anew  into  the 
sky  !  ”  said  Martin.  “  Well,  Mark.  Let  us  hope  so.” 


438 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


FROM  AMERICAN  NOTES. 

WHATEVER  the  defects  of  American  universities  may 
be,  they  disseminate  no  prejudices  ;  rear  no  bigots  ; 
dig  up  the  buried  ashes  of  no  old  superstitions ;  never  inter¬ 
pose  between  the  people  and  their  improvement ;  exclude  no 
man  because  of  his  religious  opinions  ;  above  all,  in  their  whole 
course  of  study  and  instruction,  recognize  a  world,  and  a  broad 
one,  too,  lying  beyond  the  college  walls. 


THE  maxim,  that  out  of  evil  cometh  good,  is  strongly  illus¬ 
trated  by  these  establishments  at  home,  as  the  records  of 
the  Prerogative  Office  in  Doctors’  Commons  can  abundantly 
prove.  Some  immensely  rich  old  gentleman  or  lady,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  needy  relatives,  makes,  upon  a  low  average,  a  will 
a  week.  The  old  gentleman  or  lady,  never  very  remarkable 
in  the  best  of  times  for  good  temper,  is  full  of  aches  anc^  pains 
from  head  to  foot,  full  of  fancies  and  caprices,  full  of  spleen, 
distrust,  suspicion,  and  dislike.  To  cancel  old  wills,  and  invent 
new  ones,  is  at  last  the  sole  business  of  such  a  testator’s  exist¬ 
ence;  and  relations  and  friends  (some  of  whom  have  been  bred 
up  distinctly  to  inherit  a  large  share  of  the  property,  and  have 
been,  from  their  cradles,  specially  disqualified  from  devoting 
themselves  to  any  useful  pursuit,  on  that  account)  are  so  often 
and  so  unexpectedly  and  summarily  cut  off,  and  reinstated,  and 
cut  off  again,  that  the  whole  family,  down  to  the  remotest 
cousin,  is  kept  in  a  perpetual  fever.  At  length  it  becomes 
plain  that  the  old  lady  or  gentleman  has  not  long  to  live  ;  and 
the  plainer  this  becomes,  the  more  clearly  the  old  lady  or  gen¬ 
tleman  perceives  that  everybody  is  in  a  conspiracy  against  their 
poor  old  dying  relative ;  wherefore  the  old  lady  or  gentleman 
makes  another  last  will — positively  the  last  this  time — conceals 
the  same  in  a  china  teapot,  and  expires  next  day.  Then  it 
turns  out  that  the  whole  of  the  real  and  personal  estate  is  divided 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


439 


between  half-a-dozen  charities,  and  that  the  dead  and  gone 
testator  has  in  pure  spite  helped  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good  at 
the  cost  of  an  immense  amount  of  evil  passion  and  misery. 

THE  thought  occurred  to  me  as  I  sat  down  in  another 
room  before  a  girl,  blind,  «deaf,  and  dumb,  destitute  of 
smell,  and  nearly  so  of  taste, — before  a  fair  young  creature 
with  every  human  faculty  and  hope  and  power  of  goodness 
and  affection  enclosed  within  her  delicate  frame,  and  but  one 
outward  sense, — the  sense  of  touch.  There  she  was  before 
me ;  built  up,  as  it  were,  in  a  marble  cell,  impervious  to  any 
ray  of  light  or  particle  of  sound ;  with  her  poor  white  hand 
peeping  through  a  chink  in  the  wall,  beckoning  to  some  good 
man  for  help,  that  an  immortal  soul  might  be  awakened. 

Long  before  I  looked  upon  her,  the  help  had  come.  Her 
face  was  radiant  with  intelligence  and  pleasure.  Her  hair, 
braided  by  her  own  hands,  was  bound  about  a  head  whose 
intellectual  capacity  and  development  were  beautifully  ex¬ 
pressed  in  its  graceful  outline  and  its  broad  open  brow ;  her 
dress,  arranged  by  herself,  was  a  pattern  of  neatness  and 
simplicity ;  the  work  she  had  knitted  lay  beside  her ;  her 
writing-book  was  on  the  desk  she  leaned  upon.  From  the 
mournful  ruin  of  such  bereavement  there  had  slowly  risen  up 
this  gentle,  tender,  guileless,  grateful-hearted  being. 

like  other  inmates  of  that  house,  she  had  a  green  ribbon 
bound  round  her  eyelids.  A  doll  she  had  dressed  lay  near 
upon  the  ground.  I  took  it  up,  and  saw,  that  she  had  made  a 
green  fillet  such  as  she  wore  herself,  and  fastened  it  about  its 
mimic  eyes. 

She  was  seated  in  a  little  enclosure  made  by  school-desks 
and  forms,  writing  her  daily  journal.  But  soon  finishing  this 
pursuit,  she  engaged  in  an  animated  communication  with  a 
teacher  who  sat  beside  her.  This  was  a  favorite  mistress  with 
the  poor  pupil.  If  she  could  see  the  face  of  her  fair  instruct¬ 
ress,  she  would  not  love  her  less,  I  am  sure. 


440 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


I  have  extracted  a  few  disjointed  fragments  of  her  history 
from  an  account  written  by  that  one  man  who  has  made  her 
what  she  is.  It  is  a  very  beautiful  and  touching  narrative ; 
and  I  wish  I  could  present  it  entire. 

Her  name  is  Laura  Bridgman.  “She  was  born  in  Hanover, 
New  Hampshire,  on  the  21st  of  December,  1829.  She  is 
described  as  having  been  a  ‘very  sprightly  and  pretty  infant, 
with  bright  blue  eyes.  She  was,  however,  so  puny  and  feeble 
until  she  was  a  year  and  a  half  old,  that  her  parents  hardly 
hoped  to  rear  her.  She  was  subject  to  severe  fits,  which 
seemed  to  rack  her  frame  almost  beyond  her  power  of  endur¬ 
ance,  and  life  was  held  by  the  feeblest  tenure ;  but  when  a 
year  and  a  half  old,  she  seemed  to  rally;  the  dangerous 
symptoms  subsided ;  and  at  twenty  months  old,  she  was  per¬ 
fectly  well. 

“Then  her  mental  powers,  hitherto  stinted  in  their  growth, 
rapidly  developed  themselves ;  and  during  the  four  months  of 
health  which  she  enjoyed,  she  appears  (making  due  allowance 
for  a  fond  mother’s  account)  to  have  displayed  a  considerable 
degree  of  intelligence. 

“But  suddenly  she  sickened  again  :  her  disease  raged  with 
great  violence  during  five  weeks,  when  her  eyes  and  ears  were 
inflamed,  suppurated,  and  their  contents  were  discharged. 
But  though  sight  and  hearing  were  gone  forever,  the  poor 
child’s  sufferings  were  not  ended.  The  fever  raged  during 
seven  weeks  ;  for  five  months  she  was  kept  in  bed  in  a 
darkened  room ;  it  was  a  year  before  she  could  walk  unsup¬ 
ported,  and  two  years  before  she  could  sit  up  all  day.  It  was 
now  observed  that  her  sense  of  smell  was  almost  entirely 
destroyed ;  and  consequently  that  her  taste  was  much  blunted. 

“It  was  not  until  four  years  of  age  that  the  poor  child’s 
bodily  health  seemed  restored,  and  she  was  able  to  enter  upon 
her  apprenticeship  of  life  and  the  world. 

“  But  what  a  situation  was  hers  !  The  darkness  and  the 
silence  of  the  tomb  were  around  her;  no  mother’s  smile 
called  forth  her  answering  smile,  no  father’s  voice  taught  her 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


441 


to  imitate  his  sounds; — they,  brothers  and  sisters,  were  but 
forms  of  matter  which  resisted  her  touch,  but  which  differed 
not  from  the  furniture  of  the  house,  save  in  warmth, ' and  in  the 
power  of  locomotion ;  and  not  even  in  these  respects  from  the 
dog  and  the  cat. 

“  But  the  immortal  spirit  which  had  been  implanted  within 
her  could  not  die,  nor  be  maimed  nor  mutilated ;  and,  though 
most  of  its  avenues  of  communication  with  the  world  were  cut 
off,  it  began  to  manifest  itself  through  the  others.  As  soon  as 
she  could  walk,  she  began  to  explore  the  room,  and  then  the 
house ;  she  became  familiar  with  the  form,  density,  weight,  and 
heat  of  every  article  she  could  lay  her  hands  upon.  She 
followed  her  mother  and  felt  her  hands  and  arms,  as  she  was 
occupied  about  the  house  ;  and  her  disposition  to  imitate  led 
her  to  repeat  everything  herself.  She  even  learned  to  sew  a 
little,  and  to  knit.” 

The  reader  will  scarcely  need  to  be  told,  however,  that  the 
opportunities  of  communication  with  her  were  very,  very 
limited ;  and  that  the  moral  effects'  of  her  wretched  state  soon 
began  to  appear.  Those  who  cannot  be  enlightened  by 
reason  can  only  be  controlled  by  force;  and  this,  coupled 
with  her  great  privations,  must  soon  have  reduced  her  to  a 
worse  condition  than  that  of  the  beasts  that  perish,  but  for 
timely  and  unhoped-for  aid. 

“  At  this  time  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  hear  of  the  child,  and 
immediately  hastened  to  Hanover  to  see  her.  I  found  her 
with  a  well-formed  figure  ;  a  strongly  marked,  nervous-sanguine 
temperament ;  a  large  and  beautifully  shaped  head ;  and  the 
whole  system  in  healthy  action.  The  parents  were  easily 
induced  to  consent  to  her  coming  to  Boston ;  and  on  the  4th 
of  October,  1837,  they  brought  her  to  the  Institution. 

“  For  a  while  she  was  much  bewildered;  and  after  waiting 
about  two  weeks,  until  she  became  acquainted  with  her  new 
locality,  and  somewhat  familiar  with  the  inmates,  the  attempt 
was  made  to  give  her  knowledge  of  arbitrary  signs,  by  which 
she  could  interchange  thoughts  with  others. 

19* 


442 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


u  There  was  one  of  two  ways  to  be  adopted, — either  to  go 
on  to  build  up  a  language  of  signs  on  the  basis  of  the  natural 
language  which  she  had  already  commenced  herself,  or  to 
teach  her  the  purely  arbitrary  language  in  common  use  :  that 
is,  to  give  her  a  sign  for  every  individual  thing,  or  to  give  her 
a  knowledge  of  letters  by  combination  of  which  she  might 
express  her  idea  of  the  existence,  and  the  mode  and  condition 
of  existence,  of  anything.  The  former  would  have  been  easy, 
but  very  ineffectual ;  the  latter  seemed  very  difficult,  but,  if 
accomplished,  very  effectual.  I  determined,  therefore,  to  try 
the  latter. 

“  The  first  experiments  were  made  by  taking  articles  in 
common  use,  such  as  knives,  forks,  spoons,  keys,  etc.,  and 
pasting  upon  them  labels  with  their  names  printed  in  raised 
letters.  These  she  felt  very  carefully,  and  soon,  of  course, 
distinguished  that  the  crooked  lines  spoon  differed  as  much 
from  the  crooked  lines  k  ey,  as  the  spoon  differed  from  the  key 
in  form. 

“  Then  small  detached  labels,  with  the  same  words  printed 
upon  them,  were  put  into  her  hands  ;  and  she  soon  observed 
that  they  were  similar  to  the  ones  pasted  on  the  articles.  She 
showed  her  perception  of  this  similarity  by  laying  the  label 
key  upon  the  key,  and  the  label  spoon  upon  the  spoon. 
She  was  encouraged  here  by  the  natural  sign  of  approbation, — • 
patting  on  the  head. 

“  The  same  process  was  then  repeated  with  all  the  articles 
which  she  could  handle ;  and  she  very  easily  learned  to  place 
the  proper  labels  upon  them.  It  was  evident,  however,  that 
the  only  intellectual  exercise  was  that  of  imitation  and  memory. 
She  recollected  that  the  label  book  was  placed  upon  a  book, 
and  she  repeated  the  process  first  from  imitation,  next  from 
memory,  with  only  the  motive  of  love  of  approbation,  but 
apparently  without  the  intellectual  perception  of  any  relation 
between  the  things. 

“  After  a  while,  instead  of  labels,  the  individual  letters  were 
given  to  her  on  detached  bits  of  paper.  They  were  arranged 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


443 


side  by  side  so  as  to  spell  book ,  k  e  y,  etc.  ;  then  they  were 
mixed  up  in  a  heap,  and  a  sign  was  made  for  her  to  arrange 
them  herself,  so  as  to  express  the  words  book ,  k  ey,  etc.  ;  and 
she  did  so. 

“  Hitherto  the  process  had  been  mechanical,  and  the  success 
about  as  great  as  teaching  a  very  knowing  dog  a  variety  of 
tricks.  The  poor  child  had  sat  in  mute  amazement,  and 
patiently  imitated  everything  her  teacher  did ;  but  now  the 
truth  began  to  flash  upon  her ;  her  intellect  began  to  work ; 
she  perceived  that  here  was  a  way  by  which  she  could  her¬ 
self  make  up  a  sign  of  anything  that  was  in  her  own  mind,  and 
show  it  to  another  mind ;  and  at  once  her  countenance  lighted 
up  with  a  human  expression.  It  was  no  longer  a  dog,  or 
parrot :  it  was  an  immortal  spirit,  eagerly  seizing  upon  a  new 
link  of  union  with  other  spirits  !  I  could  almost  fix  upon  the 
moment  when  this  truth  dawned  upon  her  mind,  and  spread 
its  light  to  her  countenance  ;  I  saw  that  the  great  obstacle  was 
overcome  ;  and  that  henceforward  nothing  but  patient  and 
persevering,  but  plain  and  straightforward,  efforts  were  to  be 
used. 

“  The  result,  thus  far,  is  quickly  related,  and  easily  conceived  : 
but  not  so  was  the  process ;  for  many  weeks  of  apparently 
unprofitable  labor  were  passed  before  it  was  effected. 

“When  it  was  said,  above,  that  a  sign  was  made,  it  was  in¬ 
tended  to  say  that  the  action  was  performed  by  her  teacher, 
she  feeling  his  hands,  and  then  imitating  the  motion. 

“  The  next  step  was  to  procurer  a  set  of  metal  types,  with 
the  different  letters  of  the  alphabet  cast  upon  their  ends ;  also 
a  board,  in  which  were  square  holes,  into  which  holes  she 
could  set  the  types  so  that  the  letters  on  their  ends  could  alone 
be  left  above  the  surface. 

“Then,  on  any  article  being  handed  to  her, — for  instance,  a 
pencil  or  a  watch, — she  would  select  the  component  letters, 
and  arrange  them  on  her  board,  and  read  them  with  apparent 
pleasure. 

“  She  was  exercised  for  several  weeks  in  this  way,  until  her 


444 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


vocabulary  became  extensive ;  and  then  the  important  step 
was  taken  of  teaching  her  how  to  represent  the  different  letters 
by  the  position  of  her  fingers,  instead  of  the  cumbrous  appara¬ 
tus  of  the  board  and  types.  She  accomplished  this  speedily 
and  easily ;  for  her  intellect  had  begun  to  work  in  aid  of  her 
teacher,  and  her  progress  was  rapid. 

“  This  was  the  period,  about  three  months  after  she  had 
commenced,  that  the  first  report  of  her  case  was  made,  in 
which  it  is  stated  that  ‘  she  has  just  learned  the  manual 
alphabet,  as  used  by  the  deaf-mutes,  and  it  is  a  subject  of 
delight  and  wonder  to  see  how  rapidly,  correctly,  and  eagerly 
she  goes  on  with  her  labors.  Her  teacher  gives  her  a  new 
object, — for  instance,  a  pencil, — first  lets  her  examine  it,  and 
get  an  idea  of  its  use,  then  teaches  her  how  to  spell  it  by  mak¬ 
ing  the  signs  for  the  letters  with  her  own  fingers;  the  child 
grasps  her  hand,  and  feels  her  fingers,  as  the  different  letters 
are  formed;  she  turns  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  like  a 
person  listening  closely  ;  her  lips  are  apart ;  she  seems  scarcely 
to  breathe;  and  her  countenance,  at  first  anxious,  gradually 
changes  to  a  smile,  as  she  comprehends  the  lesson.  She  then 
holds  up  her  tiny  fingers,  and  spells  the  word  in  the  manual 
alphabet ;  next,  she  takes  her  types  and  arranges  her  letters ; 
and  last,  to  make  sure  that  she  is  right,  she  takes  the  whole  of 
the  types  composing  the  word,  and  places  them  upon  or  in 
contact  with  the  pencil,  or  whatever  the  object  may  be.’ 

“  The  whole  of  the  succeeding  year  was  passed  in  gratifying 
her  eager  inquiries  for  the  names  of  every  object  which  she 
could  possibly  handle  :  in  exercising  her  in  the  use  of  the 
manual  alphabet ;  in  extending  in  every  possible  way  her 
knowledge  of  the  physical  relations  of  things ;  and  in  proper 
care  of  her  health. 

“  At  the  end  of  the  year  a  report  of  her  case  was  made,  from 
which  the  following  is  an  extract : 

“  ‘  It  has  been  ascertained,  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt, 
that  she  cannot  see  a  ray  of  light,  cannot  hear  the  least  sound, 
and  never  exercises  her  sense  of  smell,  if  she  have  any.  Thus 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


■  445 


her  mind  dwells  in  darkness  and  stillness  as  profound  as  that 
of  a  closed  tomb' at  midnight.  Of  beautiful  sights,  and  sweet 
sounds,  and  pleasant  odors  she  has  no  conception ;  neverthe¬ 
less,  she  seems  as  happy  and  playful  as  a  bird  or  a  lamb ;  and 
the  employment  of  her  intellectual  faculties,  or  the  acquire¬ 
ment  of  a  new  idea,  gives  her  a  vivid  pleasure,  which  is  plainly 
marked  in  her  expressive  features.  She  never  seems  to  repine, 
but  has  all  the  buoyancy  and  gayety  of  childhood.  She  is  fond 
of  fun  and  frolic,  and  when  playing  with  the  rest  of  the  chil¬ 
dren,  her  shrill  laugh  sounds  loudest  of  the  group. 

44  4  When  left  alone,  she  seems  very  happy  if  she  have  her 
knitting  or  sewing,  and  will  busy  herself  for  hours  :  if  she  have 
no  occupation,  she  evidently  amuses  herself  by  imaginary 
dialogues,  or  by  recalling  past  impressions  ;  she  counts  with 
her  fingers,  or  spells  out  names  of  things  which  she  has  recently 
learned,  in  the  manual  alphabet  of  the  deaf-mutes.  In  this 
lonely  self-communion  she  seems  to  reason,  reflect,  and  argue ; 
if  she  spell  a  word  wrong  with  the  fingers  of  her  right  halid, 
she  instantly  strikes  it  with  her  left,  as  her  teacher  does,  in 
sign  of  disapprobation ;  if  right,  then  she  pats  herself  upon  the 
head  and  looks  pleased.  She  sometimes  purposely  spells  a 
word  wrong  with  the  left  hand,  looks  roguish  for  a  moment  and 
laughs,  and  then  with  the  right  hand  strikes  the  left,  as  if  to 
correct  it. 

“ 4  During  the  year  she  has  attained  great  dexterity  in  the 
use  of  the  manual  alphabet  of  the  deaf-mutes ;  and  she  spells 
out  the  words  and  sentences  which  she  knows,  so  fast  and  so 
deftly,  that  only  those  accustomed  to  this  language  can  follow 
with  the  eye  the  rapid  motions  of  her  fingers. 

44  4  But  wonderful  as  is  the  rapidity  with  which  she  writes  her 
thoughts  upon  the  air,  still  more  so  is  the  ease  and  accuracy 
with  which  she  reads  the  words  thus  written  by  another ;  grasp¬ 
ing  their  hands  in  hers,  and  following  every  movement  of  their 
fingers,  as  letter  after  letter  conveys  their  meaning  to  her  mind. 
It  is  in  this  way  that  she  converses  with  her  blind  playmates, 
and  nothing  can  more  forcibly  show  the  power  of  mind  in  fore- 


446 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


ing  matter  to  its  purpose  than  a  meeting  between  them.  For 
if  great  talent  and  skill  are  necessary  for  two  pantomimes  to 
paint  their  thoughts  and  feelings  by  the  movements  of  the 
body,  and  the  expression  of  the  countenance,  how  much  greater 
the  difficulty  when  darkness  shrouds  them  both,  and  the  one 
can  hear  no  sound  ! 

“  ‘  When  Laura  is  walking  through  a  passage-way,  with  her 
hands  spread  before  her,  she  knows  instantly  every  one  she 
meets,  and  passes  them  with  a  sign  of  recognition  ;  but  if  it  be 
a  girl  of  her  own  age,  and  especially  if  it  be  one  of  her  favor¬ 
ites,  there  is  instantly  a  bright  smile  of  recognition,  and  a 
twining  of  arms,  a  grasping  of  hands,  and  a  swift  telegraphing 
upon  the  tiny  fingers,  whose  rapid  evolutions  convey  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  from  the  outposts  of  one  mind  to  those 
of  the  other.  There  are  questions  and  answers,  exchanges  of 
joy  or  sorrow,  there  are  kissings  and  partings,  just  as  between 
little  children  with  all  their  senses.’ 

“■During  this  year,  and  six  months  after  she  had  left  home, 
her  mother  came  to  visit  her,  and  the  scene  of  their  meeting 
was  an  interesting  one. 

“  The  mother  stood  some  time,  gazing  with  overflowing  eyes 
upon  her  unfortunate  child,  who,  all  unconscious  of  her  pres¬ 
ence,  was  playing  about  the  room.  Presently  Laura  ran 
against  her,  and  at  once  began  feeling  her  hands,  examining 
her  dress,  and  trying  to  find  out  if  she  knew  her  ;  but  not  sue- 
ceeding  in  this,  she  turned  away  as  from  a  stranger,  and  the 
poor  woman  could  not  conceal  the  pang  she  felt  at  finding  that 
her  beloved  child  did  not  know  her. 

“  She  then  gave  Laura  a  string  of  beads  which  she  used  to 
wear  at  home,  which  were  recognized  by  the  child  at  once,  who 
with  much  joy  put  them  around  her  neck,  and  sought  me  ea¬ 
gerly  to  say  she  understood  the  string  was  from  her  home. 

“The  mother  now  tried  to  caress  her,  but  poor  Laura  re¬ 
pelled  her,  preferring  to  be  with  her  acquaintances. 

“  Another  article  from  home  was  now  given  her,  and  she 
began  to  look  much  interested  ;  she  examined  the  stranger 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


447 


much  closer,  and  gave  me  to  understand  that  she  knew  she 
came  from  Hanover ;  she  even  endured  her  caresses,  but 
would  leave  her  with  indifference  at  the  slightest  signal.  The 
distress  of  the  mother  was  now  painful  to  behold  ;  for,  although 
she  had  feared  that  she  should  not  be  recognized,  the  painful 
reality  of  being  treated  with  cold  indifference  by  a  darling  child 
was  too  much  for  woman’s  nature  to  bear. 

‘‘After  a  while,  on  the  mother  taking  hold  of  her  again,  a 
vague  idea  seemed  to  flit  across  Laura’s  mind  that  this  could 
not  be  a  stranger  :  she  therefore  felt  her  hands  very  eagerly, 
while  her  countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  intense  inter¬ 
est  ;  she  became  very  pale,  and  then  suddenly  red  ;  hope 
seemed  struggling  with  doubt  and  anxiety,  and  never  were  con¬ 
tending  emotions  more  strongly  painted  upon  the  human  face. 
At  this  moment  of  painful  uncertainty,  the  mother  drew  her 
close  to  her  side,  and  kissed  her  fondly,  when  at  once  the  truth 
flashed  upon  the  child,  and  all  mistrust  and  anxiety  disappeared 
from  her  face,  as,  with  an  expression  of  exceeding  joy,  she 
eagerly  nestled  to  the  bosom  of  her  parent,  and  yielded  herself 
to  her  fond  embraces. 

“After  this,  the  beads  were  all  unheeded,  the  playthings 
which  were  offered  to  her  were  utterly  disregarded ;  her  play¬ 
mates,  for  whom  but  a  moment  before  she  gladly  left  the 
stranger,  now  vainly  strove  to  pull  her  from  her  mother ;  and, 
though  she  yielded  her  usual  instantaneous  obedience  to  my 
signal  to  follow  me,  it  was  evidently  with  painful  reluctance. 
She  clung  close  to  me,  as  if  bewildered  and  fearful  ;  and  when, 
after  a  moment,  I  took  her  to  her  mother,  she  sprang  to  her 
arms,  and  clung  to  her  with  eager  joy. 

“The  subsequent  parting  between  them  showed  alike  the 
affection,  the  intelligence,  and  the  resolution  of  the  child. 

“  Laura  accompanied  her  mother  to  the  door,  clinging  close 
to  her  all  the  way,  until  they  arrived  at  the  threshold,  where 
she  paused,  and  felt  around  to  ascertain  who  was  near  her. 
Perceiving-the  matron,  of  whom  she  is  very  fond,  she  grasped 
her  with  one  hand,  holding  on  convulsively  to  her  mother  with 


44§ 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


the  other ;  and  thus  she  stood  for  a  moment ;  then  she  dropped 
her  mother’s  hand,  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and,  turn¬ 
ing  round,  clung  sobbing  to  the  matron,  while  her  mother 
departed,  with  emotions  as  deep  as  those  of  her  child. 


IN  the  labor  department  every  patient  is  as  freely  trusted 
with  the  tools  of  his  trade  as  if  he  were  a  sane  man.  In 
the  garden  and  on  the  farm  they  work  with  spades,  rakes,  and 
hoes.  For  amusement  they  walk,  run,  fish,  paint,  read,  and 
ride  out  to  take  the  air  in  carriages  provided  for  the  purpose. 
They  have  among  themselves  a  sewing-society  to  make  clothes- 
for  the  poor,  which  holds  meetings,  passes  resolutions,  never 
comes  to  fisticuffs  or  bowie-knives,  as  sane  assemblies  have 
been  known  to  do  elsewhere,  and  conducts  all  its  proceedings 
with  the  greatest  decorum.  The  irritability  which  would  other¬ 
wise  be  expended  on  their  own  flesh,  clothes,  and  furniture  is 
dissipated  in  these  pursuits.  They  are  cheerful,  tranquil,  and 
healthy. 


HE  weekly  charge  in  this  establishment  for  each  female 


X  patient  is  three  dollars,  or  twelve  shillings  English  ;  but 
no  girl  employed  by  any  of  the  corporations  is  ever  excluded 
for  want  of  the  means  of  payment.  That  they  do  not  very 
often  want  the  means  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact,  that  in 
July,  1841,  no  fewer  than  nine  hundred  and  seventy-eight  of 
these  girls  were  depositors  in  the  Lowell  Savings  Bank  ;  the 
amount  of  whose  joint  savings  was  estimated  atone  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  or  twenty  thousand  English  pounds. 

I  am  now  going  to  state  three  facts  which  will  startle  a  large 
class  of  readers  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  very  much. 

Firstly,  there  is  a  joint-stock  piano  in  a  great  many  of  the 
boarding-houses.  Secondly,  nearly  all  these  young  ladies  sub¬ 
scribe  to  circulating  libraries.  Thirdly,  they  have  got  up 


DESCRIPTIONS  OP  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


449 


among  themselves  a  periodical  called  The  Lowell  Offering, 
“  A  repository  of  original  articles  written  exclusively  by  fe¬ 
males  actively  employed  in  the  mills,” — which  is  duly  printed, 
published,  and  sold  :  and  whereof  I  brought  away  from  Lowell 
four  hundred  good  solid  pages,  which  I  have  read  from  begin¬ 
ning  to  end. 

I  VERY  much  questioned  within  myself,  as  I  walked 
through  the  Insane  Asylum,  whether  I  should  have  known 
the  attendants  from  the  patients,  but  for  the  few  words  which 
passed  between  the  former  and  the  Doctor,  in  reference  to  the 
persons  under  their  charge.  Of  course  I  limit  this  remark 
merely  to  their  looks  ;  for  the  conversation  of  the  mad  people 
was  mad  enough. 

There  was  one  little  prim  old  lady,  of  very  smiling  and  good- 
humored  appearance,  who  came  sidling  up  to  me  from  die  end 
of  a  long  passage,  and,  with  a  courtesy  of  inexpressible  conde¬ 
scension,  propounded  this  unaccountable  inquiry  : 

“  Does  Pontefract  still  flourish,  sir,  upon  the  soil  of  Eng¬ 
land  ?  ” 

“  He  does,  ma’am,”,  I  rejoined. 

“  When  you  last  saw  him,  sir,  he  was — ” 

“Well,  ma’am,”  said  I,  “extremely  well.  He  begged  me  to 
present  his  compliments.  I  never  saw  him  looking  better.” 

At  this  the  old  lady  was  very  much  delighted.  After  glanc¬ 
ing  at  me  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  be  quite  sure  that  I  was  serious 
in  my  respectful  air,  she  sidled  back  some  paces,  sidled  for¬ 
ward  again,  made  a  sudden  skip  (at  which  I  precipitately  re¬ 
treated  a  step  or  two) ;  and  said  : 

“/am  an  antediluvian,  sir.” 

I  thought  the  best  thing  to  say  was,  that  I  had  suspected  as 
much  from  the  first.  Therefore  I  said  so. 

“  It  is  an  extremely  proud  and  pleasant  thing,  sir,  to  be  an 
antediluvian,”  said  the  old  lady. 

“I  should  think  it  was,  ma’am,”  I  rejoined. 


45o 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


The  old  lady  kissed  her  hand,  gave  another  skip,  smirked  and 
sidled  down  the  gallery  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  and 
ambled  gracefully  into  her  own  bedchamber. 

66  PRAY,  why  do  they  call  this  place  the  Tombs?” 

JL  “  Well,  it’s  the  cant  name.” 

“  I  know  it  is.  Why  ?  ” 

“  Some  suicides  happened  here  when  it  was  first  built.  I 
expect  it  came  about  from  that.” 

“  I  saw,  just  now,  that  that  man’s  clothes  were  scattered 
about  the  floor  of  his  cell.  Don’t  you  oblige  the  prisoners  to 
be  orderly,  and  put  such  things  away  ?  ” 

“  Where  should  they  put  ’em  ?  ” 

“Not  on  the  ground,  surely.  What  do  you  say  to  hanging 
them  up  ?  ” 

He  stops  and  looks  round  to  emphasize  his  answer : — 

“Why,  I  say  that’s  just  it.  When  they  had  hooks,  they 
would  hang  themselves,  so  they’re  taken  out  of  every  cell,  and 
there’s  only  the  marks  left  where  they  used  to  be  !  ” 


ERE  is  a  solitary  swine  lounging  homeward  by  himself. 


A  i.  He  has  only  one  ear,  having  parted  with  the  other  to 
vagrant  dogs  in  the  course  of  his  city  rambles.  But  he  gets  on 
very  well  without  it,  and  leads  a  roving,  gentlemanly,  vagabond 
kind  of  life,  somewhat  answering  to  that  of  our  club  men  at 
home.  He  leaves  his  lodgings  every  morning  at  a  certain  hour, 
throws  himself  upon  the  town,  gets  through  his  day  in  some 
manner  quite  satisfactory  to  himself,  and  regularly  appears  at 
the  door  of  his  own  house  again  at  night  like  the  mysterious 
master  of  Gil  Bias.  He  is  a  free-and-easy,  careless,  indifferent 
kind  of  pig,  having  a  very  large  acquaintance  among  other  pigs 
of  the  same  character,  whom  he  rather  knows  by  sight  than 
conversation,  as  he  seldom  troubles  himself  to  stop  and  ex¬ 
change  civilities,  but  goes  grunting  down  the  kennel,  turning 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


451 


up  the  news  and  small-talk  of  the  city  in  the  shape  of  cabbage- 
stalks  and  offal,  arid  bearing  no  tails  but  his  own,  which  is  a 
very  short  one,  for  his  old  enemies  the  dogs  have  been  at  that 
too,  and  have  left  him  hardly  enough  to  swear  by.  He  is  in 
every  respect  a  republican  pig,  going  wherever  he  pleases,  and 
mingling  with  the  best  society  on  an  equal  if  not  superior  foot¬ 
ing,  for  every  one  makes  way  when  he  appears,  and  the  haugh¬ 
tiest  give  him  the  wall  if  he  prefer  it.  He  is  a  great  philoso¬ 
pher,  and  seldom  moved  unless  by  the  dogs  before  mentioned. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  you  may  see  his  small  eye  twinkling  on  a 
slaughtered  friend,  whose  carcass  garnishes  a  butcher’s  door¬ 
post;  but  he  grunts  out,  14 Such  is  life;  all  flesh  is  pork!” 
buries  his  nose  in  the  mire  again,  and  waddles  down  the  gut¬ 
ter,  comforting  himself  with  the  reflection  that  there  is  one 
snout  the  less  to  anticipate  stray  cabbage-stalks,  at  any  rate. 

THE  terrible  crowd  with  which  these  halls  and  galleries  were 
filled  so  shocked  me,  that  I  abridged  my  stay  within  the 
shortest  limits,  and  declined  to  see  that  portion  of  the  building 
in  which  the  refractory  and  violent  were  under  closer  restraint. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  the  gentleman  who  presided  over  this  es¬ 
tablishment  at  the  time  I  write  of  was  competent  to  manage  it, 
and  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  promote  its  usefulness  ;  but 
will  it  be  believed  that  the  miserable  strife  of  Party  feeling  is 
carried  even  into  this  sad  refuge  of  afflicted  and  degraded  hu¬ 
manity  ?  Will  it  be  believed  that  the  eyes  which  are  to  watch 
over  and  control  the  wanderings  of  minds  on  which  the  most 
dreadful  visitation  to  which  our  nature  is  exposed  has  fallen, 
must  wear  the  glasses  of  some  wretched  side  in  Politics  ?  Will 
it  be  believed  that  the  governor  of  such  a  house  as  this  is  ap¬ 
pointed  and  deposed  and  changed  perpetually,  as  Parties  fluct¬ 
uate  and  vary,  and  as  their  despicable  weathercocks  are  blown 
this  way  or  that  ?  A  hundred  times  in  every  week  some  new 
most  paltry  exhibition  of  that  narrow-minded  and  injurious 
Party  Spirit  which  is  the  Simoom  of  America,  sickening  and 


452 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


blighting  everything  of  wholesome  life  within  its  reach,  was 
forced  upon  my  notice  ;  but  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  it, 
with  feelings  of  such  deep  disgust  and  measureless  contempt  as 
when  I  crossed  the  threshold  of  this  mad-house. 

HEAVEN  save  the  ladies,  how  they  dress  !  We  have 
seen  more  colors  in  these  ten  minutes  than  we  should 
have  seen  elsewhere  in  as  many  days.  What  various  parasols  ! 
what  rainbow  silks  and  satins  !  what  pinking  of  thin  stock¬ 
ings,  and  pinching  of  thin  shoes,  and  fluttering  of  ribbons  and 
silk  tassels,  and  display  of  rich  cloaks  with  gaudy  hoods  and 
linings  !  The  young  gentlemen  are  fond,  you  see,  of  turning 
down  their  shirt-collars  and  cultivating  their  whiskers,  es¬ 
pecially  under  the  chin ;  but  they  cannot  approach  the  ladies 
in  their  dress  or  bearing,  being,  to  say  the  truth,  humanity  of 
quite  another  sort. 

AS  Washington  may  be  called  the  head-quarters  of  to¬ 
bacco-tinctured  saliva,  the  time  is  come  when  I  must 
confess,  without  any  disguise,  that  the  prevalence  of  those  two 
odious  practices  of  chewing  and  expectorating  began  about 
this  time  to  be  anything  but  agreeable,  and  soon  became  most 
offensive  and  sickening.  In  all  the  public  places  of  America 
this  filthy  custom  is  recognized.  In  the  courts  of  law  the 
judge  has  his  spittoon,  the  crier  his,  the  witness  his,  and  the 
prisoner  his ;  while  the  jurymen  and  spectators  are  provided 
for,  as  so  many  men  who  in  the  course  of  nature  must  desire 
to  spit  incessantly.  In  the  hospitals  the  students  of  medicine 
are  requested,  by  notices  upon  the  wall,  to  eject  their  tobacco- 
juice  into  the  boxes  provided  for  that  purpose,  and  not  to  dis¬ 
color  the  stairs.  In  public  buildings,  visitors  are  implored, 
through  the  same  agency,  to  squirt  the  essence  of  their  quids, 
or  “plugs,”  as  I  have  heard  them  called  by  gentlemen  learned 
in  this  kind  of  sweetmeat,  into  the  national  spittoons,  and  not 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


453 


about  the  bases  of  the  marble  columns.  But  in  some  parts 
this  custom  is  inseparably  mixed  up  with  every  meal  and 
morning  call,  and  with  all  the  transactions  of  social  life.  The 
stranger  who  follows  in  the  track  I  took  myself  will  find  it  in  its 
full  bloom  and  glory,  luxuriant  in  all  its  alarming  recklessness, 
at  Washington.  And  let  him  not  persuade  himself  (as  I  once 
did,  to  my  shame),  that  previous  tourists  have  exaggerated  its 
extent.  The  thing  itself  is  an  exaggeration  of  nastiness  which 
cannot  be  outdone. 

On  board  this  steam-boat  there  were  two  young  gentlemen, 
with  shirt- collars  reversed  as  usual,  and  armed  with  very  big 
walking-sticks,  who  planted  two  seats  in  the  middle  of  the 
deck,  at  a  distance  of  some  four  paces  apart,  took  out  their 
tobacco-boxes,  and  sat  down  opposite  each  other  to  chew.  In 
less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour’s  time,  these  hopeful  youths  had 
shed  about  them  on  the  clean  boards  a  copious  shower  of 
yellow  rain ;  clearing,  by  that  means,  a  kind  of  magic  circle, 
within  whose  limits  no  intruders  dared  to  come,  and  which  they 
never  failed  to  refresh  and  re-refresh,  before  a  spot  was  dry. 
This  being  before  breakfast,  rather  disposed  me,  I  confess,  to 
nausea ;  but  looking  attentively  at  one  of  the  expectorators,  I 
plainly  saw  that  he  was  young  in  chewing,  and  felt  inwardly 
uneasy  himself.  A  glow  of  delight  came  over  me  at  this  dis¬ 
covery  ;  and  as  I  marked  his  face  turn  paler  and  paler,  and 
saw  the  ball  of  tobacco  in  his  left  cheek  quiver  with  his  sup¬ 
pressed  agony,  while  yet  he  spat  and  chewed  and  spat  again, 
in  emulation  of  his  older  friend,  I  could  have  fallen  on  his 
neck  and  implored  him  to  go  on  for  hours. 

THE  Senate  is  a  dignified  and  decorous  body,  and  its  pro¬ 
ceedings  are  conducted  with  much  gravity  and  order. 
Both  houses  are  handsomely  carpeted  ;  but  the  state  to  which 
these  carpets  are  reduced  by  the  universal  disregard  of  the 
spittoon  with  which  every  honorable  member  is  accommo¬ 
dated,  and  the  extraordinary  improvements  on  the  pattern 


454 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


which  are  squirted  and  dabbled  upon  it  in  every  direction,  do 
not  admit  of  being  described.  I  will  merely  observe,  that  I 
strongly  recommend  all  strangers  not  to  look  at  the  floor  :  and 
if  they  happen  to  drop  anything,  though  it  be  their  purse, 
not  to  pick  it  up  with  an  ungloved  hand  on  any  account. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  too,  at  first,  to  say  the  least,  to 
see  so  many  honorable  members  with  swelled  faces ;  and  it 
is  scarcely  less  remarkable  to  discover  that  this  appearance 
is  caused  by  the  quantity  of  tobacco  they  contrive  to  stow 
within  the  hollow  of  the  cheek.  It  is  strange  enough,  too,  to 
see  an  honorable  gentleman  leaning  back  in  his  tilted  chair, 
with  his  legs  on  the  desk  before  him,  shaping  a  convenient 
“plug”  with  his  penknife,  and  when  it  is  quite  ready  for  use, 
shooting  the  old  one  from  his  mouth,  as  from  a  pop-gun,  and 
clapping  the  new  one  in  its  place. 

I  was  surprised  to  observe  that  even  steady  old  chewers  of 
great  experience  are  not  always  good  marksmen,  which  has 
rather  inclined  me  to  doubt  that  general  proficiency  with  the 
rifle  of  which  we  have  heard  so  much  in  England.  Several 
gentlemen  called  upon  me  who,  in  the  course  of  conversation, 
frequently  missed  the  spittoon  at  five  paces,  and  one  (but  he 
was  certainly  short-sighted)  mistook  the  closed  sash  for  the 
open  window,  at  three.  On  another  occasion,  when  I  dined 
out,  and  was  sitting  with  two  ladies  and  some  gentlemen  round 
a  fire  before  dinner,  one  of  the  company  fell  short  of  the  fire¬ 
place,  six  distinct  times.  I  am  disposed  to  think,  however, 
that  this  was  occasioned  by  his  not  aiming  at  that  object,  as 
there  was  a  white-marble  hearth  before  the  fender,  which  was 
more  convenient,  and  may  have  suited  his  purpose  better. 

/  * 

IN  the  negro  car  belonging  to  the  train  in  which  we  made 
this  journey  were  a  mother  and  her  children  who  had  just 
been  purchased  ;  the  husband  and  father  being  left  behind  with 
their  old  owner.  The  children  cried  the'  whole  way,  and  the 
mother  was  misery’s  picture.  The  Champion  of  Life,  Liberty, 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


455 


and  the  Pursuit  of  Happiness,  who  had  bought  them,  rode  in 
the  same  train,  and,  every  time  we  stopped,  got  down  to  see 
that  they  were  safe.  The  black  in  Sinbad’s  Travels,  with  one 
eye  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  which  shone  like  a  burning 
coal,  was  nature’s  aristocrat  compared  with  this  white  gentle¬ 
man. 

HERE  are  few  words  which  perform  such  various  duties 


JL  as  this  word  “fix.”  It  is  the  Caleb  Quotem  of  the 
American  vocabulary.  You  call  upon  a  gentleman  in  a 
country  town,  and  his  help  informs  you  that  he  is  “fixing  him¬ 
self”  just  now,  but  will  be  down  directly ;  by  which  you  are  to 
understand  that  he  is  dressing.  You  inquire,  on  board  a  steam¬ 
boat,  of  a  fellow-passenger,  whether  breakfast  will  be  ready 
soon,  and  he  tells  you  he  should  think  so,  for  when  he  was  last 
below  they  were  “  fixing  the  tables,”  in  other  words,  laying  the 
cloth.  You  beg  a  porter  to  collect  your  luggage,  and  he  en¬ 
treats  you  not  to  be  uneasy,  for  he’ll  “  fix  it  presently ;  ”  and 
if  you  complain  of  indisposition,  you  are  advised  to  have  re¬ 
course  to  Doctor  so-and-so,  who  will  “fix  you”  in  no  time. 

One  night  I  ordered  a  bottle  of  mulled  wine  at  an  hotel 
where  I  was  staying,  and  waited  a  long  time  for  it ;  at  length 
it  was  put  upon  the  table  with  an  apology  from  the  landlord 
that  he  feared  it  wasn’t  “fixed  properly.”  And  I  recollect 
once,  at  a  stage-coach  dinner,  overhearing  a  very  stern  gentle¬ 
man  demand  of  a  waiter  who  presented  him  with  a  plate  of 
underdone  roast  beef  “  whether  he  called  that  fixing  God 
A’mighty’s  vittles.” 

CANT  as  we  may,  and  as  we  shall  to  the  end  of  all  things, 
it  is  very  much  harder  for  the  poor  to  be  virtuous  than  it 
is  for  the  rich ;  and  the  good  that  is  in  them  shines  the  brighter 
for  it.  In  many  a  noble  mansion  lives  a  man,  the  best  of  hus¬ 
bands  and  of  fathers,  whose  private  worth  in  both  capacities  is 


456 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


justly  lauded  to  the  skies.  But  bring  him  here,  upon  this 
crowded  deck.  Strip  from  his  fair  young  wife  her  silken  dress 
and  jewels,  unbind  her  braided  hair,  stamp  early  wrinkles  on 
her  brow,  pinch  her  pale  cheek  with  care  and  much  privation, 
array  her  faded  form  in  coarsely  patched  attire,  let  there  be 
nothing  but  his  love  to  set  her  forth  or  deck  her  out,  and  you 
shall  put  it  to  the  proof  indeed.  So  change  his  station  in  the 
world,  that  he  shall  see  in  those  young  things  who  climb  about 
his  knee,  not  records  of  his  wealth  and  name,  but  little  wrest¬ 
lers  with  him  for  his  daily  bread,  so  many  poachers  on  his 
scanty  meal,  so  many  units  to  divide  his  every  sum  of  comfort, 
and  further  to  reduce  its  small  amount.  In  lieu  of  the  endear¬ 
ments  of  childhood  in  its  sweetest  aspect,  heap  upon  him  all 
its  pains  and  wants,  its  sicknesses  and  ills,  its  fretfulness,  caprice, 
and  querulous  endurance  ;  let  its  prattle  be  not  of  engaging  in¬ 
fant  fancies,  but  of  cold  and  thirst  and  hunger  ;  and  if  his 
fatherly  affection  outlive  all  this,  and  he  be  patient,  watchful, 
tender,  careful  of  his  children’s  lives,  and  mindful  always  of 
their  joys,  and  sorrows,-  then  send  him  back  to  Parliament,  and 
Pulpit,  and  to  Quarter  Sessions,  and  when  he  hears  fine  talk  of 
the  depravity  of  those  who  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  labor 
hard  to  do  it,  let  him  speak  up,  as  one  who  knows,  and  tell 
those  holders  forth  that  they,  by  parallel  with  such  a  class, 
should  be  High  Angels  in  their  daily  lives,  and  lay  but  humble 
siege  to  Heaven  at  last. 

Which  of  us  shall  say  what  he  would  be,  if  such  realities, 
with  small  relief  or  change  all  through  his  days,  were  his  ! 
Looking  round  upon  these  people,  far  from  home,  houseless, 
indigent,  wandering,  weary  with  travel  and  hard  living,  and  see¬ 
ing  how  patiently  they  nursed  and  tended  their  young  children ; 
how  they  consulted  over  their  wants  first,  then  half  supplied 
their  own  ;  what  gentle  ministers  of  hope  and  faith  the  women 
were;  how  the  men  profited  by  their  example;  and  how  very, 
very  seldom  even  a  moment’s  petulance  or  harsh  complaint 
broke  out  among  them, — I  felt  a  stronger  love  and  honor  of 
my  kind  come  glowing  on  my  heart,  and  wished  to  God  there 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


457 


had  been  many  Atheists  in  the  better  part  of  human  nature 
there  to  read  this  simple  lesson  in  the  book  of  Life. 


I  CANNOT,  I  confess,  incline  towards  the  Shakers,  view 
them  with  much  favor,  or  extend  towards  them  any  very 
lenient  construction.  I  so  abhor  and  from  my  soul  detest  that 
bad  spirit,  no  matter  by  what  class  or  sect  it  may  be  entertained, 
which  would  strip  life  of  its  healthful  graces,  rob  youth  of  its 
innocent  pleasures,  pluck  from  maturity  and  age  their  pleasant 
ornaments,  and  make  existence  but  a  narrow  path  towards  the 
grave  ;  that  odious  spirit  which,  if  it  could  have  had  full  scope 
and  sway  upon  the  earth,  must  have  blasted  and  made  barren 
the  imaginations  of  the  greatest  men,  and  left  them,  in  their 
power  of  raising  up  enduring  images  before  their  fellow-creatures 
yet  unborn,  no  better  than  the  beasts  ;  that  in  these  very  broad- 
brimmed  hats  and  very  sombre  coats — in  stiff-necked,  solemn- 
visaged  piety,  in  short,  no  matter  what  its  garb,  whether  it  have 
cropped  hair  as  in  a  Shaker  village,  or  long  nails  as  in  a  Hin¬ 
doo  temple — I  recognize  the  worst  among  the  enemies  of 
Heaven  and  Earth,  who  turn  the  water  at  the  marriage-feasts  of 
this  poor  world,  not  into  wine,  but  gall.  And  if  there  must  be 
peopled  vowed  to  crush  the  harmless  fancies  and  the  love  of 
innocent  delights  and  gayeties,  which  are  a  part  of  human  nat¬ 
ure, — as  much  a  part  of  it  as  any  other  love  or  hope  that  is  our 
common  portion, — let  them,  for  me,  stand  openly  revealed 
among  the  ribald  and  licentious ;  the  very  idiots  know  that  they 
are  not  on  the  Immortal  road,  and  will  despise  them,  and  avoid 
them  readily. 

ON  the  fourth  night  after  leaving  Louisville  we  reached  St. 

Louis,  and  here  I  witnessed  the  conclusion  of  an  inci¬ 
dent,  trifling  enough  in  itself,  but  very  pleasant  to  see,  which 
had  interested  me  during  the  whole  journey. 

20 


45$ 


BEAUTIES  OF  DICKENS. 


There  was  a  little  woman  on  board  with  a  little  baby  ;  and 
both  little  woman  and  little  child  were  cheerful,  good-looking, 
bright-eyed,  and  fair  to  see.  The  little  woman  had  been  pass¬ 
ing  a  long  time  with  her  sick  mother  in  New  York,  and  had  left 
her  home  in  St.  Louis  in  that  condition  in  which  ladies  who 
truly  love  their  lords  desire  to  be.  The  baby  was  born  in  her 
mother’s  house,  and  she  had  not  seen  her  husband  (to  whom 
she  was  now  returning)  for  twelve  months,  having  left  him  a 
month  or  two  after  their  marriage. 

Well,  to  be  sure  there  never  was  a  little  woman  so  full  of  hope 
and  tenderness,  and  love,  and  anxiety,  as  this  little  woman  was  ; 
and  all  day  long  she  wondered  whether  “  He”  would  be  at  the 
wharf,  and  whether  “  He  ”  had  got  her  letter,  and  whether,  if 
she  sent  the  baby  ashore  by  somebody  else,  “  He  ”  would  know 
it,  meeting  it  in  the  street ;  which,  seeing  that  he  had  never  set 
eyes  upon  it  in  his  life,  was  not  very  likely  in  the  abstract,  but 
was  probable  enough  to  the  young  mother.  She  was  such  an 
artless  little  creature,  and  was  in  such  a  sunny,  beaming,  hope¬ 
ful  state,  and  let  out  all  this  matter  clinging  close  about  her 
heart  so  freely,  that  all  the  other  lady  passengers  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  it  as  much  as  she  ;  and  the  captain  (who  heard  all 
about  it  from  his  wife)  was  wondrous  sly,  I  promise  you,  in¬ 
quiring  every  time  we  met  at  table,  as  in  forgetfulness,  whether 
she  expected  anybody  to  meet  her  at  St.  Louis,  and  whether 
she  would  want  to  go  ashore  the  night  we  reached  it  (but  she 
supposed  he  wouldn’t),  and  cutting  many  other  dry  jokes  of 
that  nature.  There  was  one  little,  weazen,  dried-apple-faced 
old  woman,  who  took  occasion  to  doubt  the  constancy  of  hus¬ 
bands  in  such  circumstances  of  bereavement ;  and  there  was 
another  lady  (with  a  lapdog)  old  enough  to  moralize  on  the 
lightness  of  human  affections,  and  yet  not  so  old  that  she  could 
help  nursing  the  baby  now  and  then,  or  laughing  with  the  rest 
when  the  little  woman  called  it  by  its  father’s  name,  and  asked 
it  all  manner  of  fantastic  questions  concerning  him  in  the  joy 
of  her  heart. 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  PERSONS  AND  THINGS. 


459 


It  was  something  of  a  blow  to  the  little  woman,  that,  when 
we  were  within  twenty  miles  of  our  destination,  it  became 
clearly  necessary  to  put  this  baby  to  bed.  But  she  got 
over  it  with  the  same  good-humor,  tied  a  handkerchief  round 
her  head,  and  came  out  into  the  little  gallery  with  the  rest. 
Then  such  an  oracle  as  she  became  in  reference  to  the  locali¬ 
ties  !  and  such  facetiousness  as  was  displayed  by  the  married 
ladies !  and  such  sympathy  as  was  shown  by  the  single  ones  ! 
and  such  peals  of  laughter  as  the  little  woman  herself  (who 
would  just  as  soon  have  cried)  greeted  every  jest  with  ! 

AT  last  there  were  the  lights  of  St.  Louis,  and  here  was 
the  wharf,  and  those  were  the  steps,  and  the  little  woman 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  laughing  (or  seeming  to 
laugh)  more  than  ever,  ran  into  her  own  cabin,  and  shut  her¬ 
self  up.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  in  the  charming  inconsistency 
of  such  excitement,  she  stopped  her  ears,  lest  she  should  hear 
“  Him  ”  asking  for  her,  but  I  did  not  see  her  do  it. 

Then  a  great  crowd  of  people  rushed  on  board,  though  the 
boat  was  not  yet  made  fast,  but  was  wandering  about,  among 
the  other  boats,  to  find  a  landing-place,  and  everybody  looked 
for  the  husband,  and  nobody  saw  him,  when,  in  the  midst  of 
us  all — Heaven  knows  how  she  ever  got  there — there  was  the 
little  woman  clinging  with  both  arms  tight  round  the  neck  of  a 
fine,  good-looking,  sturdy  young  fellow !  and  in  a  moment  af¬ 
terwards,  there  she  was  again,  actually  clapping  her  little  hands 
for  joy,  as  she  dragged  him  through  the  small  door  of  her  small 
cabin  to  look  at  the  baby  as  he  lay  asleep  ! 

NOR  did  I  ever  once,  on  any  occasion,  anywhere,  during 
my  rambles  in  America,  see  a  woman  exposed  to  the 
slightest  act  of  rudeness,  incivility,  or  even  inattention. 


THE  END. 


INDEX. 

- H* - - 

PAGE 

A  blessing . 407 

A  burying  scene .  223 

Agnes,  215  ;  her  letter . 319 

All  sheep  not  mutton  . . .  26 

Alone  at  night .  246 

A  light  for  Little  Em’ly .  284 

American  Universities . . . 438 

American  ladies . 452 

A  mistaken  kiss .  12 7 

A  model  pauper . 408 

A  mouldy  old  church .  226 

A  new  life . 35 

An  Autumn  scene . 346 

Are  the  dead  forgotten . . . 206,  207,  253 

A  slight  mistake . 402 

A  troubled  conscience .  219 

Barnaby  and  the  stars,  153;  and  happiness,  189,  3365  his  Raven. . .  .  153 

Barkis  is  willing,  29  ;  is  sick,  33  ;  his  will,  195  ;  his  death . 281 

Betsey’s,  Miss,  disappointment .  24 

Bella,  as  a  cook . 47 

Blimber’s  hot-house,  Doctor . 8 

Boffin  employs  Wigg,  378  ;  the  first  reading,  381 ;  adopting  an  orphan  54 
Brass,  the  compliments  of  Mr.,  37  ;  the  honesty  of,  38;  Miss  Sally..  158 

Browdie,  John,  and  Miss  Squeers .  15 1 

Boodle,  Lord . 369 

Benevolence .  211 

Book-keeping  with  heaven . 211 

Bunsby’s  marriage,  87  ;  how  he  obtained  opinions . 10 

Brick,  Mr.  Jefferson . 419,  422 

Bill  of  fare  in  England . 411 

Bridgman,  Laura,  the  blind  girl .  440 


462  INDEX. 


PAGE 

Calton,  Mr .  405 

Chester  on  heart,  Mr.,  334;  is  a  perfect  character,  226  ;  Mr.  Edward 

leaves  his  home . 247 

Christmas . 209,  403 

Chuzzlewit  family,  the,  172,  174  ;  Mr.  Chuzzlewit  has  a  re-union. .  135,  136 
Chuzzlewit,  Martin,  “receiving,”  429;  Martin  and  Mrs.  Harmony, 

431;  and  the  impertinent  stranger .  432 

Circumlocution  office. . .  119 

Chivery,  Mr .  170 

Chollop,  Mr  . . 435 

Conscience,  elastic . 204 

Consumption . . .  212 

Consequence  of  fainting .  33 

Consequence  of  being  fat .  15 

Cleopatra  playing  with  death .  85 


Copperfield,  David,  and  his  new  pa,  101 ;  his  cheeses,  101 ;  he  bites, 
102;  at  school,  104;  the  butcher,  106;  his  banquet,  no;  in¬ 
toxicated,  108 ;  reflections  about  his  father,  213;  his  love  for 
Little  Em’ly,  214;  at  his  aunt’s  gate,  182;  an  orphan,  280; 
leaves  Steerforth,  218  ;  David  and  Dora,  325,  326 ;  keeping  house, 


186,  187,  322;  with  Agnes . 324,  325 

Clennam  has  a  proud  stomach,  Mr .  121 

Crummies,  Mrs .  36 

Crumpton,  the  Misses .  404 

Curate,  our  new . 400 

Curiosity .  335 

Cuttle’s  science,  Capt . . .  10 

Cuppy,  Mr.,  370;  he  didn’t  propose,  116;  his  last  proposal .  374 

Devils  or  Angels .  228 

Devil  as  a  gentleman,  the .  220 

Dedlock,  Lady . 166 

Dennis  and  his  clothes,  154  ;  he  wants  to  live .  250 

Devout  mice . 224 

Dick,  Mr.,  322;  his  decision,  31;  King  Charles,  105;  the  stranger. .  105 

Dot  and  the  cricket .  394 

Dowler  obtained  his  wife,  how  Mr.,  72  ;  the  consequence  of  his  going 

to  sleep .  72 

Discharged  from  prison . 273 


Dombey,  Mr.,  160,  161 ;  Dombey  and  Son,  343;  the  death  of  Mrs., 
253  ;  Dombey  and  wife,  261,  262  ;  ruined,  264 ;  an  old  man. . . . 


342 


INDEX. 


463 

PAGE 

Dombey  and  money,  Paul,  79;  his  first  investment,  80;  analysis  of 


his  character,  81  ;  is  dead .  255 

Dombey,  Florence,  257,  258,  262;  at  her  father’s  door,  256;  in  his 
room,  256;  her  step-mother,  337;  returned  home,  253,  254; 

playing  with  Paul,  255  ;  asking  forgiveness .  89 

Dorrit,  the  birth  of  Little,  118;  her  happiness,  122;  expresses  her 

gratitude,  357  ;  her  letter . , .  358 

Dorrit,  the  death  of  Mr . 285 

Dora’s  babe,  284  ;  approaching  death,  284  ;  her  will,  215  ;  her  death  284 

Ecclesiastical  offence,  an .  232 

Elephants  and  elements . 33 

Eugene’s  M.R.F . 58 


Father  Time . 

Fang,  Mr . 

Fagan  and  Bolter . 

Fledgeby,  165  ;  his  family . 

Flora,  disjointed . 

Fortune-hunters . 

Frail*  and  the  sisters,  the . 

F.’s  aunt  in  a  pie-shop,  Mr.,  123  ;  Flora  and 


.  ...  181 

1 

....  164 
....  52 

. .  . .  46 

335>  361 


M3 

120 


Gamp,  Mrs.,  187;  and  snuff,  130;  her  apartments,  196,  197;  wait¬ 


ing  for  a  boat,  42  ;  on  steamers,  354  ;  and  Prig  as  nurses .  351 

General,  Mrs.,  on  prunes  and  prisms,  39;  has  designs .  359 

Gordon,  Lord  George .  191 

Grewgious,  Mr . 177 

Grim  wig,  Mr .  52 

Gills  and  Cuttle . 339,  341 


Ham,  180;  loses  Em’ly . 

Hanging  in  England . . . 

Heep,  Uriah . 182, 

How  to  catch  a  hat . 

How  people  are  bought  and  sold . . . 

How  to  stay  a  moral  infection . . . . . 

Household  affections . 

Hopkins  and  the  necklace,  Jack . 


283 

230 

185 

209 

34'o 

219 

205 

70 


Insane  Asylum . 149,  448 

Invisible  snuff .  410 


464 


INDEX . 


PAGE 


Jabling’s  philosophy,  John . . .  131 

Jarley’s  wax  figures,  Mrs. . .  331 

Jews  and  Christians . 387,  389 

Jelly  by,  Mrs.,  166;  and  Caddy,  115  ;  young  Jellyby  in  a  tight  place. .  117 

Jo,  169;  the  death  of .  269 

Jonas  respects  his  father .  348 

Kinwig  excitement,  a  little .  148 

Kit  in  church,  91  ;  fights  for  Little  Nell’s  bird .  329 

La  Creevy  finding  a  nose,  Miss . .  142 

Lammle,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  383,  387;  their  house .  45 

Lit  timer . 184 

Lovers  and  lovers  of  country . . . .  354 

Lyons,  city  of,  412  ;  the  people  of,  413  ;  funerals .  414 

Magwitch,  Able . . . . . .  48 

Macstinger,  Miss .  84 

Man’s  help  and  God’s  forgiveness . . . .  225 

Madame  Mantalini,  146;  Mr.,  going  to  destroy  himself .  149 

Magnus  and  the  proposal  . .  305 

Maggy’s  dress . 199 

Maplesone . 406 

Marley’s  ghost . ‘ .  390 

Marwood,  Alice. . . 225 

Masters  or  owners . 421 

Meagles’  advertisement,  the  effect  of. . . .  120 

Memory  of  the  dead .  211 

Men  who  are  false  and  hollow .  333 

Merdle’s  bosom,  200  ;  Mr.  Merdle  dead .  362 

Micawber’s  twins,  318;  his  punch,  321;  his  relish  for  words,  322; 

Mrs.  Micawber . : .  . .  18 1 

Midnight . • .  364 

Miggs  don’t  want  to  be  kissed,  Miss.  . .  162 

Mistress  of  the  Blue  Dragon,  the .  173 

Morning . 331 

Murdstone  religion,  the.  . . 231,  232,  233 

Natural  affections . 212 

Ned,  Mrs .  41 

Nell,  Little,  willing  to  be  a  beggar,  239  ;  her  heroism,  242  ;  admon¬ 
ished  that  she  must  die,  242;  her  death .  2S9 


INDEX. 


465 

PAGE 

Newcome,  Clemency .  395 

Newman  Noggs . 141,  179 

Nature’s  faces  change . 365 

Nickleby,  Kate,  in  mourning . 316 

Nickleby,  Mrs.,  has  a  weak  memory,  317;  her  roast  pig,  36 ;  her  son 

shows  his  nature,  275  ;  death  of  her  husband .  279 

Nickleby,  Mr.,  179  ;  he  is  not  surprised .  140 

Old  age  childish . 204 

Obstinacy  and  firmness .  347 

Pancks  and  his  figures,  40 ;  on  reference . . .  39 

Partings .  205 

Parochial  Dick’s  request . 266 

Pecksniff,  Mr.,  40,  172  ;  and  sirens,  41  ;  his  distillery,  42  ;  declaring 
his  love,  127;  at  a  key-hole,  124;  wants  to  improve  his  mind, 

125;  is  struck,  131 ;  his  daughters,  175,  176;  he  moralizes,  347 ; 
his  bank,  350;  his  tears,  353  ;  gains  a  son-in-law,  353  ;  is  grieved 

by  Mr.  Pinch,  346  ;  a  serenade  to  the  Misses .  349 

Pecksniff,  Miss  Charity,  and  the  proposal,  128;  the  result .  137 

Peggotty’s  buttons,  28  ;  the  crocodile  book .  26 

Peggotty,  Mr.,  181  ;  his  house . . . . .  . 193,  194 

Pickwick’s  introduction,  10  ;  the  old  horse,  59  ;  fall  into  a  barrow, 

62;  and  Job  Trotter,  64;  in  the  wrong  room,  65;  in  trouble, 

298  j  Pickwick  and  Merdle  on  ice . .  308 

Pipchin,  Mrs .  162 

Politics . 451 

Poultry  markets .  353 

Quilp,  158  ;  his  resurrection . 72 

Remorse  and  misery .  66 

Richard  saves  his  money,  how .  368 

Riot,  the . 155,  336 

Sapsea’s  monument,  Mrs .  177 

Sampson  pressing  his  love,  Mr .  57 

Sawyer’s  patients,  Mr.  Bob,  23;  how  he  advertised .  77 

Scrooge,  a  new  man .  393 

Selfishness .  218 

Shakers,  the . 457 

Sherry  cobbler .  425 

20* 


466 


INDEX. 


PAGE 


Sky-lark . 29 

Smallneed  family,  the . . .  168 

Skimpole,  Mr . ill,  367,  371 

Smike  and  home,  316 ;  where  he  wants  to  be  buried,  277  ;  his  death.  278 

Some  of  God’s  own  folks .  224 

Sowerberry,  Mr .  363 

Sloppy,  165  ;  Sloppy  and  Mrs.  Wren,  59  ;  Sloppy  expressing  his  feel¬ 
ings  .  388 

Some  town  fowls .  203 

Sparkler,  Mr . 40,  170 

Spenlow  and  Jorkins .  318 

Squeers,  Mr.,  179;  at  home,  180;  beginning  operations,  141  ;  takes 
care  of  his  pupils,  146;  how  he  pays  his  doctor’s  bills,  150;  his 
advertisements,  315;  on  philosophy,  317;  Mrs.  Squeers  finds  her 

spoon . . .  277 

Squeers,  Miss,  147  ;  in  love .  34 

Sleeping  too  heavy . 38 

Strange  legacies . 416 

Stiggins  as  a  Christian .  236 

Strong,  Doctor,  182;  his  dictionary .  183 

Sniveller,  Mr.,  dining,  327  ;  recovering . 98 

Sunday  meetings  in  theatres . 409 


Tapley,  Mark,  is  a  verb,  42;  at  sea,  126;  arrives  in  America,  418; 

the  American  Eagle,  437  ;  his  return . 

Tappertit,  Mr . 

Tetterby  at  home,  396 ;  Mrs.  Tetterby,  397  ;  sons  of  Mars,  398  ; 

Adolphus,  397  ;  the  baby. .  . . 

The  Agent . 

The  blind  man,  248  ;  his  reasoning . . 

The  British  Lion . . . . . 

The  murderer’s  secret . . . 

The  old  couple . 

The  sane  and  the  insane . 

The  colored  dancers . 

TheqDoor  and  the  rich . . . 

The  Tombs . 

The  old  churchyard. . . . . . 

The  intelligent  dog . 

The  principle  is  the  same  . . 

The  Jews . 

The  death  of  the  favorite  pupil . 


134 

188 

398 

•427 

231 

428 

249 

402 

410 

409 

455 

45o 

268 

60 

47 

387 

240 


/ 


INDEX. 


467 

PAGE 


The  thoughts  of  worldly  men .  227 

The  banks  of  the  Thames . . . 403 

Tippins,  Lady,  389  ;  and  Lightwood .  387 

Tibbs,  Mr.  and  Mrs .  405 

Toots  and  Miss  Nipper,  343;  his  affection,  10  ;  going  to  propose, 

86  ;  the  effect . 89 

Toodle’s  education,  7  ;  and  his  children .  240 

Tobacco  chewing . . . , .  .452,  453 

Towzer  designed  for  the  church . 224 

Travelling  in  America .  426 

Traddles  and  Mrs.  Crewler,  323  ;  his  hair,  195  ;  has  made  a  begin¬ 
ning  . . .  321 

Tupman  meets  with  an  accident,  Mr.,  61 ;  his  interview  with  Miss 

Werdle . 302 

Turveydrop  is  willing,  Mr .  113 

Twist,  Oliver,  51;  his  birth,  162;  his  name,  163;  his  ninth  birth¬ 
day,  163  ;  his  dining-room,  201 ;  going  to  be  taken  care  of,  221  ; 
how  he  took  exercise,  221;  in  the  undertaking  business,  222; 
among  coffins,  264  ;  has  a  friend,  3 66 ;  in  the  care  of  a  philoso¬ 
pher,  366;  among  friends .  267 


Unnatural  humanity. . .  216 

Varden,  Mrs.,  43;  Dolly . . 43,  44 

Venus,  Mr .  52 

Walter’s  marriage,  338  ;  his  departure . 82,  83 

Weller’s  cure  for  the  gout,  Mr.,  13  ;  his  wife’s  will,  23  ;  the  shepherd, 

234,  236  ;  he  is  sorry  she  is  gone .  237 

Weller,  Mr.,  Sam  and  the  wagon-load  of  monkeys,  11 ;  the  twopenny 
rope,  11  ;  his  philosophy,  12;  his  receipt  for  veal  pie,  12;  his 
sense  of  duty,  14;  the  elastic  fixtures,  14;  his  letter,  17;  the 
pork-shop,  69;  folding  carpets,  210;  his  descriptions  of  people  .  304 


Wemmick  and  Mrs.  Skiffins,  49  ;  his  marriage .  50 

What  the  wind  howls  like .  228 

Willet,  Mr.,  and  mermaids,  43;  Willet,  Parkes  and  Cobb,  334;  insane  156 

Willet,  Joe,  come  to  see  Dolly,  244 ;  the  result .  246 

Wills  in  America .  43S 

Wilfer,  Mr.,  164;  Mrs.  Wilfer’s  petticoat .  58 

Wosky,  Doctor .  406 

Wren,  Miss,  44;  her  father . 51,  166,  390 


